


Into my Bloodstream

by Izzyzal (orphan_account)



Series: Fletch and Jade [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avengers: Alternate Assembly, Badly Misdirected Anger, Bruce Has Issues, Bruce Pepper and Natasha are Team Damage Control, Bruce has four labs, Clint Has Issues, Enemies With Benefits, Everyone except Tony has issues really, Hateship to romance, Hulkeye - Freeform, Jarvis is Skynet-y, Lack of Communication, Loki's an Avenger, Loki's not an asshole, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pseudo and meta science, References to other Marvel movies, Science Bros, Slow Build, Spider-Man is Unhelpful, Sunglasses make you a dick, Thor doesn't get Midgard, What the fic needs the fic gets, he's just prickly, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-24 06:21:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 48,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1594772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Izzyzal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bruce Banner began working with the Avengers Initiative as a man, he met an archer he despised.</p><p>[ likely permanently incomplete ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ...in which Tony confirms he has no exterior design taste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I started writing this THE SAME DAY that I finished Carnival of Rust so we’ll see how long my life will behave. Have you ever heard someone say “I told you that story so I could tell you this one”? I wrote CoR so I could write this. I have no idea how long it will be, nor how angsty, nor how many times the tags will be updated and changed. There is going to be A LOT of canon divergence because this is sort of my own little world (a world of alternate assembly, if you will) and if you haven’t read CoR this won’t make much sense but it’s only four chapters so that’s a thing. Anyway. Onward to my first full-scale Avengers fanfic! I’ve got the Canon Shears ready to rip established canon to shreds, don’t mind me. It’s basically a bunch of what-ifs (what if Bruce had Tony’s help in dealing with the Hulk, what if Thor and Loki had come down from Asgard for reasons other than exile or human subjugation, what if all of the Avengers had met under less stressful circumstances, you get the idea).
> 
> Warning: The rating is _going_ to go up. It’ll start at G but I have no doubt that it’ll end up at least M. No doubt at all. I’ll try to confine the M (or E!) stuff to their own chapters, though, so if you aren’t into that sort of thing you can just skip over them and still get the story.
> 
> I also have a YouTube playlist for this story (and the last one), which you can find [right here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLjtTegZWPwpNAGLrkZkrTI00yHsNhutQS).

“What the hell do you call this place?”

“Avengers Tower. Like it?”

Bruce stared at the monolith before him and squinted, tilting his head to the side. Like was, after all, a very strong and committed word, and frankly it wasn’t one he felt particularly like using at the moment. He could feel Tony’s eyes on him as he stared at it, finally saying, “It’s... very you.”

“It’s not done yet,” Tony complained, though he was smiling as he did so. He smacked Bruce between the shoulder blades hard enough that he nearly upset his balance. “There are still floors to be added, both up top and underground, and it’s a big work in progress. Still, you won’t have to spend much time here, if you don’t want to.”

Bruce sighed and reached up to adjust his sunglasses. Ever since Tony had agreed to work for S.H.I.E.L.D. on a contract basis, he’d had his fingers in a bunch of different pies where the so-called Avengers Initiative was concerned. Part of his contract work had been designing a headquarters of sorts that, officially, was nothing but an office building as far as government records were concerned. The original plan had been to make it as unassuming as possible. Of course, if they’d wanted unassuming, then getting Tony Stark to design it had been a fantastically bad idea. It wasn’t garish, not like Stark Tower could be considered, but it was very...

“Am I going to be reading about a chrome shortage in New York once this place is done?”

“Can’t deny that it’s eye-catching.”

“I think I’ve gone blind. I’m honestly afraid to remove my sunglasses.”

The interior was designed much like an office building and would be used for such purposes from the third floor down, Tony explained. Access to the higher levels was restricted by codes in the elevators, key cards and other identification precautions in the stairwell doors, and personnel familiar with the faces of those who needed to be there. Bruce would have sincerely doubted the security if he didn’t already know what S.H.I.E.L.D. was capable of and hadn’t seen it firsthand. Besides, he had no doubt that Tony had taken every precaution under consideration, plus a plethora of things Bruce hadn’t even thought of; paranoia was just his natural state of being and there was nothing to be done about that.

The lobby itself looked like just that: a lobby. There was a large circular reception desk in the middle of the room, elevators along the back wall, stair access on the off hallways, a few glass-front offices, even public access restrooms. Bruce rubbed the leaves of a very convincing fake ficus near the reception desk and smirked. “You really got into this, didn’t you?”

“No reason for anyone to look twice,” Tony said with a sage nod. Of course, there weren’t actually any employees in the building, but Bruce had no doubt that S.H.I.E.L.D. would take care of that soon enough. Motioning for Bruce to follow, Tony moved back to the elevators and pushed the call button, continuing, “I’m glad you agreed to come today. Fury’ll want you to sign a contract agreement, probably, but you’ll officially be working for me, not S.H.I.E.L.D. The meeting shouldn’t take that long.”

They boarded the elevator when the doors opened, and Bruce was unsurprised to find windows on the three open sides. It provided a nice view of the city, he couldn’t deny that. “You know, doesn’t S.H.I.E.L.D. have a headquarters for this?”

“Yeah, but I refused to go there,” Tony shrugged as he swiped an access card, selected a floor (Bruce noticed that there were definitely more numbers than there were floors at the moment), and leaned back against the railing to watch the numbers crawl up. “The Avengers are, officially, a division of S.H.I.E.L.D. That said, I’ve told Fury that I won’t work with the Initiative unless I have the assurance that it will be kept a separate arm. They have enough lackeys running around, and the last thing I want to do is turn into one of those. Avengers specific business will take place here in the tower or I’m not involved, and frankly, Iron Man is popular enough with the public right now that I can command it. If the Avengers actually do ever end up becoming necessary, they’ll need all the approval they can get to keep from causing an incident on either an international or a domestic scale.”

Bruce laughed, shaking his head. “But your popularity hasn’t gone to your head.”

“My ego is perfectly normal and healthy, thank you very much.”

The elevator opened onto a wide hallway with doors off to either side, but Tony led them straight to the end and into an open conference room. The long wall opposite the door held floor-to-ceiling windows, tinted in that special way that two-way mirrors were, which at least explained why the building was so goddamn shiny from the outside. “Who all are we meeting here, exactly?”

Tony shrugged as he threw himself into the chair at the head of the table, kicking his feet up onto the mahogany surface as though it hadn’t cost at least ten thousand dollars of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s money (not that Tony treated his own furniture any differently). “Fury, Coulson--have you met Coulson? I can’t remember--someone named Hill, and he says he’s got the official Avengers head as well as a couple of S.H.I.E.L.D. liaisons we’ll be working with, as well as other organizations that have agreed to assist, but I don’t have a lot of info beyond that. I guess we’ll find out.”

Where Tony produced a deck of cards from, Bruce had no idea, but they killed time playing gin (after Bruce vehemently denied the possibility of strip poker) until the door opened. Bruce stood up out of habit, but Tony just saluted with his hand of cards and didn’t even bother to take his feet off the table as Nick Fury came in. With him was a man in a suit with thinning hair, a rather severe-looking woman in what looked like S.H.I.E.L.D.’s typical field wear, and a youngish, nervous-looking blonde who looked as though he had wandered into a gym one day and had just been too polite to leave.

“Smaller group than I was promised, Fury,” Tony said as he finally kicked his feet off the table and stood. He moved around to shake hands with Fury, then with the other suited man beside him. “Coulson,” he greeted mildly. “And you must be...” he began, eyeing the woman.

She cut him off with a look that couldn’t be called a glare but was twice as cold as one. “Agent Hill,” she explained simply, leveling him with a look until he actually took a step back and held his hands up defensively.

“Right, got it... Agent.”

“The liaisons are examining your building for security weaknesses as we speak, Stark,” Fury said without preamble. Tony looked offended, but he continued, “Better to have them found by our side than someone else. Doctor Banner,” he added, shaking hands with Bruce.

“Ah, I’ve heard a lot about you,” the man Bruce assumed was Agent Coulson said as they shook hands as well. “Agent Phil Coulson. Rumor has it you’re easier to work with than Mister Stark.”

“Considerably,” Bruce said with a smile, ignoring Tony’s second offended noise of the meeting. “Bruce Banner,” he added, probably unnecessarily, but it felt like the polite thing to do.

Almost as if he couldn’t contain himself any longer, the young blonde spoke up. “You’re Howard Stark’s kid?” he asked, looking straight at Tony. The room went relatively silent almost immediately as Tony eyed him, looking torn between curiosity and suspicion.

“Yeah,” he said slowly, drawing the word out. “And you would be...?”

“Steve Rogers,” the blonde said, thrusting his hand forward for a handshake that Bruce could tell would probably (accidentally) cripple a lesser man. Tony looked mildly startled, but took it with caution. The handshake looked oddly vigorous, though it was short, and Bruce caught Tony rubbing his hand after they had released. “I knew your father.”

“...you can’t have. You can’t be older than...” Tony began, trailing off, before his eyes widened slightly. He stared at him before looking at Fury. “ _That_ Steve Rogers?” When Fury just nodded once, Tony looked back to Steve again. “...huh. Well, then, he told me a lot about you when I was growing up.” Steve looked surprised, then pleased.

Bruce was fairly lost until they were seated around the table and Coulson took the opportunity to explain Steve’s presence: a naturally cryogenically frozen Captain America, recently dethawed (as Tony summed up) and now sitting at their table. Bruce was mostly enthralled by the explanation, but he half-signed the contract agreement as well as the other stack of paperwork he had been given but didn’t read very thoroughly because Tony assured him that JARVIS had already gone through it for any legal snags and found it “mutually beneficial”.

“Well, if he’s who you were talking about, Fury, he’ll be a hell of a leader,” Tony said as he leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “Good, I won’t have to do it.”

“Well, we’re so glad you approve, Stark,” Fury said dryly. “For now, we’re just here to discuss the Initiative itself. So far, nothing has come up that has needed such drastic measures; there are enough of you guys running around,” he continued, gesturing between Tony and Steve, “that you can handle most things going solo and, half the time, you can get to it faster on your own than we could send a team. However, we don’t like to take any chances, which is why we’re arranging this. You remember what happened last spring, of course.”

Steve looked lost, but Tony grimaced. “Connors. Right.”

When Steve continued to look lost, Bruce addressed him specifically. “He found a way to, essentially, manipulate his DNA with the addition of a lizard’s. Theoretically, such a procedure would permit humans to regrow missing limbs. However, it backfired, as such things usually do, and... well.”

“He ended up infecting a good portion of the city with Crazy Lizard Disease,” Tony said. “That would have been a hell of a problem if it’d gotten out of hand.”

“Which it nearly did,” Fury said. “It was taken care of quickly, but if it hadn’t been, we would have had a full-scale massacre on our hands. We’re not going to let that happen.”

“We’ve already got a few people interested in working with the Initiative on either a part-time or a contract basis similar to the two of you. Charles Xavier, for one, and Doctor Richards, for another.”

“The X-Men and the Fantastic Four?” Tony asked dubiously. Fury looked like he was about to ask how he knew that, but he continued, “Seriously? They’re behind this?”

Fury let it go with a sigh. “I wouldn’t necessarily say they’re behind it, exactly, but they’ve both agreed to lend assistance when needed, particularly where Magneto or Doctor Doom are concerned. We’re afraid they’re going to start getting ideas from the lizard incident and see the upside to having normal citizens either under control or converted for their purposes. It sounds like exactly the sort of thing Doom, particularly, would love.”

“Didn’t he already do that, like, twice?” Tony muttered under his breath, but Bruce spoke over him with, “What, exactly, are the Avengers going to be expected to handle? I know I’m not...” he trailed off, tapping his pen against the desk a couple of times, before continuing, “You currently have a team of one official member, one contract member, and two S.H.I.E.L.D. liaisons, if I’m not mistaken. That’s hardly a team, and it’s certainly not an organization.”

“We’re working on recruiting further,” Fury admitted, “but for the time being, you’ll continue to do your own thing unless we absolutely need to call you in. Doctor Banner, you’ll be working with Stark, correct?”

Bruce couldn’t help noticing that he still maintained a title, apparently, whereas Tony was just a last name. He smiled a little, nodding. “Right. I don’t do the fighting thing, I’m more of a...” he trailed off once more, tapping his pen against his temple by way of explanation.

Fury looked at him critically, but Bruce just stared back, keeping his expression as placid as possible. For a moment, he wondered if S.H.I.E.L.D. already knew about the Other Guy, but ultimately... it really didn’t matter if they did or not. That wasn’t what he was here for. He could control it just fine, and even if he couldn’t, he and Tony had measures in place. Eventually, Fury nodded. “Will you be working here, or would you be willing to work at our own headquarters from time to time?”

“If you have a lab I can use, I’ll work in a grain silo.”

Names were tossed around the table, some of which Bruce recognized and others that he didn’t. Would Spider-Man be willing to work with them? Maybe, if anyone could actually find him, which they were working on. Didn’t he and the Human Torch try to kill each other every time they were within the same zip code? Yes, it was a concern they’d taken under consideration. Fifteen minutes later, Coulson piped up with the strangest non-sequitur Bruce had heard the entire conversation, mostly because he was looking straight at him and Tony as he said it: “Find the holes?”

He and Tony exchanged glances, but the answer came from directly behind them. “Fifteen, nothing major. We’ve taken care of most of them.”

Considering that Bruce could see the only door from right where he was and it had not opened, he spun in a slight panic towards the female who had spoken. His heart rate had escalated and he placed his hand over his chest as he took in the appearance of the two who had seemingly come out of absolutely nowhere. They looked like standard-issue S.H.I.E.L.D., that much was certain. Both in the field uniform, the woman had short red hair and a countenance that, while beautiful, revealed nothing; the man had remarkably well-muscled arms, short cropped hair, and sunglasses that made him even more unreadable than the woman. Bruce was gratified that Tony had reacted the same way to their sudden appearance, considering that he said, “Jesus, where the hell did you two come from, the vents?”

The man’s lips curved in what could almost be called half a smirk before it disappeared, but the woman didn’t react. Bruce turned back towards Coulson as the agent spoke, “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Agents Romanoff and Barton. They’re--”

“...the liaisons, got it,” Tony said with a nod. Introductions went around quickly enough, as Fury, Coulson, and Hill already knew them, and Agent Romanoff moved to sit in one of the available chairs. Agent Barton followed her, but rather than sitting, he leaned up against the mirrored windows and stared out over the city.

The rest of the meeting was remarkably short. More paperwork, which really didn’t surprise Bruce (it was the government, after all), promises to keep them in the loop (should anything come up that they needed to know about), and an offer of free use of a laboratory at S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ (provided he agreed to an escort) seemed to be the only matters left to deal with, at least that concerned Bruce directly.

Tony and Fury slipped into a quiet but heated back and forth after everyone had gotten up from the table, but Coulson moved to Bruce and shook his hand again. “It was good to meet you, Doctor Banner. I don’t know how you’ve put up with Stark for so many years.”

“Acclimation,” Bruce said simply, beginning to feel itchy at having been in a room with so many strangers for so long. With no threat present, the Other Guy was being strangely cooperative (sleeping), so Bruce knew the itch was all him. He offered Coulson a tight smile and watched as he left the room with Fury. Hill said something to Tony about getting to know one’s teammates, Coulson said something to Romanoff and Barton about catching up later on his way out, and then the three were gone.

Tony let out a theatrical groan once the door shut and threw himself into a chair. “Right,” he said, enthusiastically clapping his hands together. “Team-building exercises or some shit like that, right? Is that what we’re supposed to do? I don’t really play well with other children.”

Steve shot him a bemused look before turning his attention to Bruce. “They said you were a doctor. What sort?”

“I’m not a medical doctor,” Bruce said, waving his hand a bit. “I’m... well. Nuclear physicist, but I dabble in other areas. When you spend so much time with Tony, you find your horizons being broadened whether you want them to or not.”

Steve didn’t look like he knew what to make of that, so he just nodded. He looked a bit more clear when Bruce added, “I’ll be providing support for the Avengers. Weapons development, armor improvements, that sort of thing.”

An awkward silence descended over the room before Tony got to his feet. “Look, I know they want us to become some sort of... god, I don’t know what they want, but it doesn’t work like that, right?” He reached up to ruffle the back of his hair with one hand. “Bruce, I don’t know, what do you think, a movie night? What the hell does a team of superheroes do to get to know each other?”

“Fight together,” Bruce said with a shrug. “Your team, not my problem. But I’d suggest a no to the movie night, no one needs to be subjected to your tastes.”

“Setting up a training regimen would probably be the most useful beginning,” Agent Romanoff said, cocking one hip and glancing back at Agent Barton before looking at them again. “Frankly, we’re only interested in the practical sides of your abilities. Finding out what we can all do is the first step to crafting a useful set of tactics. Doctor Banner,” she added, addressing Bruce directly enough that he felt his spine straightening to attention, just a bit. “Would you mind meeting with me at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters? I have a few things to ask you.”

Bruce hesitated for just a moment before he nodded, once. “I don’t think that will be a problem. Would you count as my security detail?”

She nodded before shaking his hand. “I’ll be in touch.” With that, she was gone, Agent Barton following behind her without so much as a single syllable uttered.

“Well, I should probably...” Steve began, gesturing around the room a bit before clearing his throat and nodding. “Mister Stark. Doctor Banner.” Then he was gone as well, leaving Bruce and Tony alone in the room again.

Tony ruffled the side of his hair with one hand. “That went well.”

“Think those agents could have calmed down a bit? I thought they were about to bounce straight through the wall,” Bruce said as they began walking back down the hallway.

Laughing, Tony punched the button again. “They’ll warm up to me soon enough. Everyone does.” Leaning against the railing, he said, “So, Captain America, huh?”

Bruce smirked at him. “Did the superstar find someone worth having a celebrity crush on?”

“What? God, no,” Tony said with so much offense that Bruce had to laugh. “I mean, sure, I heard a lot about him when I was a kid, but that was because he was probably my father’s most successful experiment. I wonder what his blood is like,” he continued, sounding a bit dreamy as he did so. Bruce shook his head, unwilling to admit that he was probably just as curious as Tony was.

The lobby was empty when they arrived, but Tony said that there would be S.H.I.E.L.D. employees assigned specifically to the Initiative there soon enough. “We have a lab in the basement. Want to see it?”

“You know I do.”

\----------

Over the next two weeks, Bruce learned a few things about the Initiative.

First of all, Tony was extremely lucky to have his suit, because he was definitely the least experienced fighter on the team so far and Bruce had already had to patch him up six different times.

Second of all, predictably, Tony and Steve mixed like oil and water. As much as Tony had tried to pretend he was okay with handing the reins over to Captain America, he had too much of an ego to be completely comfortable with someone else running the show. Bruce and Pepper (thank god she returned from vacation five days in) ran damage control between the two at least once a day. Pepper thought they were both being pigheaded. Bruce thought they both needed new insults.

Third of all, Agent Romanoff was probably one of the most intelligent human beings he had ever met. After agreeing to meet with her at the headquarters, the two had holed up in his lab and spent a good four hours discussing weapons systems, armor upgrades, and various attachments with different abilities that could be added to said weapons or armor with as little hassle as possible. Bruce, upon finding he’d be working with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s resources and contacts, found his doors opened even further than they’d been at Stark Industries. He hadn’t thought that was possible.

Finally, Agent Barton did not like him. At all. At first, he had wondered if it was because he wasn’t a friendly person, and the fact that Bruce had been spending so much time with Barton’s girlfriend. After all, every single time he saw Barton, Agent Romanoff did all the talking for both of them and he rarely so much as cracked a smile. But soon, he found that it was just him.

He was working in the lab in Stark Tower (wondering how many labs he was going to have when everything was said and done as he had one there, one in Avengers Tower, one at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, and was promised one on something called a Helicarrier, whatever that was) when Tony came in and threw himself unceremoniously into a chair.

“Long day?” Bruce asked without looking up from his microscope. A theatrical groan was his answer, and like hell Bruce was going to dignify that with a response. If he looked up at that, then Tony would get the idea that it was an appropriate way to answer a question, and he wasn’t in the habit of encouraging Tony’s childish behavior when he could help it.

The moments stretched into minutes before Tony finally sat up and said, “Another training session. I swear to god, Capsicle takes a sick kind of glee in beating me into the pavement, no matter how sorry he says he is. Since I’m always right off the mat, he has to beat the crap out of me on it.” He spoke over Bruce’s snort of derision at the ‘always right’ comment, though Bruce could practically hear the pout. “And Natasha and Clint are no help. She’s taken to _keeping score_ , dammit, and he sits in the rafters and yells unhelpful suggestions down at me so fast I’d have to have superhuman speed to even think about acting on them.”

That had Bruce looking up, frowning a little. “Natasha and Clint?” he asked, officially having lost the thread of the conversation.

“Right, uh, Agent Romanoff and Agent Barton, I guess,” Tony said with a shrug. “During our training session a couple of days ago, Clint said with was... uh, what did he say, exactly... It was stupid for us to call each other by last names and we were stupid for doing it, and then elected to start giving everyone nicknames until Cap made him stop.”

Bruce was barely listening. That didn’t match up with his image of Agent Barton at all, but then, he’d only ever seen him in a professional setting.  
He was further confused the next time he went to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. While being a contractor and not even really working with the Initiative itself, he was required to have an escort at all times. Agent Romanoff had taken the job on herself, because they usually had tech to discuss. He’d told her that she was coming and was unsurprised to find her in the primary receiving room, as she usually was. However, Agent Barton was with her, and the two of them were engaged in more animated discussion than Bruce had seen on a lot of the normal, non-super-spy people he’d known in his life.

“You’re ridiculous,” she was saying, her arms folded over her chest.

“No, I’m really not!” he protested, waving his hands at her slightly. “Look, come to my apartment later. I’ll show it to you. The movie is bad-ass, you’d like it. It’s got a lot of guns in it and two dudes with Irish accents. Don’t front, you’ve got a thing for foreigners and violence.”

“It sounds like a stupid movie. Catholics don’t go on shooting sprees.”

“These Catholics do. Come _on_ , Tasha, I’ll even pick up some Chinese or something and I swear to whatever god you want me to swear to that if you don’t like it I’ll stop bugging you to watch movies with me.”

“That’s what you said after Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

“You just didn’t get that one.”

“It was bad.”

“I know! That’s the point!”

Feeling a bit out of place but unsure what else to do, Bruce cleared his throat a bit. Both of the agents turned to look at him, and it was almost as though he had flipped a switch. All of Barton’s expressiveness disappeared (did he wear those sunglasses everywhere?) and he straightened fluidly enough that it almost looked as though it wasn’t deliberate. Bruce opened his mouth to say something, maybe apologize for interrupting, but Barton just gave him a curt nod and turned on his heel, walking away.

At a loss, Bruce said, “I’m... sorry for...” He raised his hand to rub the back of his neck. “...did I do something?”

Agent Romanoff watched Barton walk off and frowned a little. “It’s not... he just...” She shook her head. “He’s never really been fond of scientists. It’s nothing personal.”

“Tony’s a scientist.”

“It’s complicated,” Agent Romanoff said with the faintest, almost apologetic, shrug before she waved for Bruce to follow and began walking down a different corridor. “Are you here for the lab, Doctor Banner?”

Bruce nodded once, turning his conversation with Tony over in his head, before he said, “You can just... you know. Call me Bruce.” He shrugged in his most nonchalant it-really-doesn’t-matter sort of way without looking at her. “I mean, if you want.”

He chanced a look at her and she was giving him a look that was almost amused. “All right. Natasha,” she added, tipping her head a bit. “...since you’re the only one who can keep a rein on Stark--Tony, I mean--Steve and I were discussing making you an honorary Avenger. God knows it’s a Herculean task you’ve taken on.”

Despite the past few minutes, that startled a laugh out of Bruce. “I’m hardly a superhero.”

“You have an iron will to deal with him.”

The conversation soon turned to technology specs. He asked her about the prototype he’d had her test, and that carried them to the lab and then some. The conversation didn’t turn to Agent Barton again; Bruce didn’t ask, and Natasha seemed unwilling to offer the information.

Later, when speaking to Tony, he found out that Barton had once been in the circus.

Bruce decided he didn’t like Agent Barton, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. Sorry. *Throws canon confetti in the air*
> 
> (Before people ask: Hulkeye is my Marvel OTP. It's gonna happen. It's just gonna take a while.)


	2. ...in which Walking Dead references are lame, but present anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t say this last time, but Hulkeye will not be the only relationship in this fic. However, the others will not be focused on and will be easy enough to ignore if they aren’t your cup of tea. Also! I am completely, 100% unbeta’d, so I appreciate any comments or feedback or grammar or spelling that anyone feels like giving to me. I’m really bad at actually replying to comments, but I still really, really love them and read every single one.
> 
> Bumped rating up to T for language for this chapter.

The apartment was quiet after the music that had played over the closing credits finally died. When the screen abruptly shifted back to the DVD menu, Clint picked up the remote to turn first the TV and then the DVD player off (because doing things out of order was the most innocently passive-aggressive method he knew of to annoy Natasha), then leaned enough to poke her thigh with his toe. “See? It was totally an awesome movie.”

“Awesome is subjective,” she said, though he could see her smile by the glow from the streetlights outside his window. She shifted on the couch, and so did he, until they were leaning up against opposite arm rests with their legs tangled up together. He picked up a stress ball (medical had finally just given him one after the number of times he’d broken fingers and needed one for rehab) and squeezed it a few times before tossing it over to her. She caught it easily and they started up an easy back and forth, their voices low in the sudden stillness of the apartment.

“So what do you think?” he asked. He didn’t have to clarify. He never did.

“It’s good,” she said. “I’m not the best team player, though. You know that.”

“I do,” he agreed, smiling playfully at her and intercepting the stress ball as she threw it at his face. Starting the rhythm again, he said, “I like Steve, especially. Could you imagine waking up after a seventy year nap? Surprised Tony hasn’t started calling him Rip Van Winkle; it’s a reference Steve would actually get.” He grinned at Natasha’s soft laugh, which was the equivalent of a guffaw from anyone else. “Maybe I should casually suggest it sometime.”

“I don’t think you need to get any more involved in that quarrel than you already are,” Natasha said. They were silent for long moments before she said, “I’m testing a new widow’s bite. Smaller, more powerful, easier to conceal, easier to get through customs if that becomes an issue. Looks like having Tony on the team is going to be more useful than just his tin man getup.”

“Yeah?” Clint asked, interested. “He’s building you one?”

She paused for just long enough that he knew the answer before she responded. “No.” She sighed a little. “You should talk to Doctor Banner, Clint. He’s surprisingly good with weapons tech; he did a lot on the current Iron Man suit. He’d be--”

“Nothing doing, Tasha,” Clint cut in, catching the stress ball and tossing it between his own hands a few times. “I’ve got our own R&D department. I don’t need to rely on Tony’s personal... whatever the hell he is.”

She gave that sigh she usually did when she thought he was being stupid. “Stark Industries is top in weapons and armor. More than top. Who knows what kind of arrows--?”

“If I need new arrows, I can just go to Tony--”

“Tony’s got his own thing to worry about, you know that. Besides, Bruce would probably--”

“Oh, he’s _Bruce_ now, is he?”

“He’s going to be working with us, Clint; he told me that I could call him Bruce.”

“Look, I don’t need Banner’s help, all right? My own arrows are fine, and--”

“I know what this is about, Clint, and it’s been _twenty years_ ,” Natasha said sharply, cutting Clint off. “I get it. Believe me, I understand. I know why you hate scientists, particularly any that have anything to do with radiation, but it’s been twenty years,” she reemphasized. “Bruce would have been a kid himself when that happened. You two aren’t that far apart in age, from what I can tell. You can’t hold what one scientist did against all of them.”

Clint snorted lightly and pressed the stress ball as flat as he could between his palms. “You think I don’t know that?” he asked quietly. “It doesn’t _matter_ , that’s what I’m saying. It’s... for all I know, he’s exactly the same. And stop talking about it like I’m hung up on...” He couldn't make himself say it.

“You _are_ hung up on him.”

“You said it yourself, it’s been two decades. I don’t even know him anymore. For god’s sake, he’s dead for all I know.”

Natasha sighed and fell quiet. It wasn’t like this was the first time they’d had this realization, and Clint knew for a fact it wouldn’t be the last, but even so... There were two people he had even remotely told about this: Coulson, since he had needed his help in actually doing any tracking, and Natasha, to whom he had spilled everything during an ill-advised vodka binge when they were seventeen. “Look, I just...” Clint began, before realizing he wasn’t sure how he wanted to finish that sentence.

Leave it to Natasha to know exactly what he meant when even he hadn’t known where he was going. “You want to stop talking about it,” she said. “That’s fine. We don’t have to. Look, all I’m saying is... could you at least _try_ not to be so openly hostile to the guy? You two don’t have to like each other, and you don’t have to be friends, but unfortunately you are going to have to work together.”

“I know that, logically,” Clint muttered as he sank further into the couch and tossed the stress ball up in the air slightly. “And, hell, if you can figure out how to install a conversation filter maybe I won’t make an ass of myself. But I’m not good at playing nice with people I don’t like.”

“Yes you are,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You’re the second best spy in the business.”

He smiled at the backhanded compliment. “Egotist. And I mean when I’m off the job. You want me to, what, lie to the guy?”

“No.” Natasha shrugged. “I just want things to not be awkward, I guess. And if he’s going to be around and working with the rest of us, it’s going to be awkward. Besides, he’s already slightly on the outs anyway.” She frowned. “Did you know that his file is on a need-to-know basis? And that the members of the Initiative are not on the need-to-know list?”

“Mildly suspicious.”

“Mildly,” she agreed.

“I get you. He’s already not part of the cool club, don’t isolate him more than necessary. Fine.”

She nodded. “Put in excellent junior high terms, Clint, thank you.”

He gave her a sarcastic half-smirk, nudging her with his foot again. “Want to stay?” he asked, changing the subject as smoothly as he was capable of under the circumstances.

She caught the stress ball when it was tossed back to her and turned it over between her hands, obviously debating how she wanted to answer. “...not tonight,” she said finally. “Minor assignment tomorrow. I should probably stay in the barracks.”

Clint nodded and caught the stress ball as Natasha disentangled their legs and got back to her feet. “Out of the country?”

“Not even out of the city. I don’t know anything more about it, though. I’ll fill you in later, it shouldn’t take more than the night.”

Standing as well, Clint tossed the stress ball down on the couch and retrieved Natasha’s jacket for her as she toed on her shoes. When he handed it to her, she placed one hand on the nape of his neck and squeezed just hard enough to ensure that she had his attention. “It’s all fine, Hawkeye.”

“I know.”

She nodded and pulled her jacket on, disappearing out the front door. Clint locked it behind her, turned the lamp on so the apartment wasn’t so damn dark, put some music on his stereo so the apartment wasn’t so damn quiet, and moved into the kitchen. Rooting through the refrigerator and cabinet turned up some shredded pepper jack cheese, a package of tortillas, and some pepperoni that he didn’t remember buying, so he tossed something that was almost sort of like pizzas together and tossed them under the broiler. He pulled himself to sit on the counter, picking up a pencil and playing with it idly as he half-watched the food through the oven’s window.

Was he being too hard on Banner? Maybe. Probably, if he had to be honest with himself. But since he was being honest anyway, he also had to admit that he really didn’t care. It wasn’t just that the guy was a scientist. He had the whole weird Zen thing going on that just freaked him out. It was like he was trying so hard to be calm because anything else would be...

...he didn’t know what it would be. That was what made it so weird.

The food was terrible by his usual standards, but better than what he had on missions, so he ate it along with two and a half cans of beer that didn’t even buzz him but did, at least, take the edge off. Tossing the pan in the kitchen to deal with at a later time when he actually cared, he moved into his bathroom and peeled his shirt off.

And there they were, staring at him. An old scar from his last fight with Barney, across his clavicle, and a pale green stone carved into a coin, hung on a leather thong around his neck. He had better places for it on missions, of course, but when he was off duty... Clint fingered the jade coin between his thumb and index fingers, feeling the decorative lines cut into it, and stared at its reflection. He didn’t even realize he was leaning forward until his hips hit the counter and his forehead hit the glass.

Clint huffed out a laugh, his breath fogging the glass right in front of his mouth. “Maybe she’s right about you,” he muttered, staring at his own eyes. “Maybe you are hung up. A little bit.”

\----------

The Avengers settled into something of a routine. Tony wasn’t around all the time, and Banner was around even less, but Steve lived on site at the headquarters and he frequently trained with Clint and Natasha when the two of them weren’t on missions for S.H.I.E.L.D. When Tony did come by, it was generally for updates on the progress of that Avenger Tower thing he was insisting on continuing to build. Clint wasn’t disappointed in the slightest to hear that he was building entire floors specialized for each member of the Avengers, with more to be added for permanent members as needed.

Like hell he was going to turn down something built specifically for him by Tony Goddamn Stark himself.

Another week in, and they’d started training in Avengers Tower itself. An entire basement floor had been dedicated to it, complete with two separate shooting ranges for both archery and handguns, and the sparring room itself was less a room and more a warehouse. As much as Steve and Tony got in each other’s faces, Clint couldn’t help noticing that the Captain seemed very pleased at the weight and endurance training rooms.

It was in the middle of a training session in the Sparring Warehouse, sans Tony, that they found themselves with an audience. Steve hit the mat hard, an achievement only made possible by the fact that Clint and Natasha had managed to gang up on him, but the Captain barely had time to articulate a groan before the room was filled with echoing applause.

“Bravo,” a voice said, the three of them quickly straightening to take in the appearance of the young man in the room. He looked fairly young, maybe mid-twenties, with a leather jacket that looked like it had seen a lot of action and blonde hair that was too perfectly tousled for him to really have just had sex. He was smirking at them and shook his head slowly, as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“I don’t believe it,” he said, articulating Clint’s thoughts as he took a few steps closer. “Captain fuckin’ America, right here in this room.” He laughed to himself, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I mean, Reed told me and all, but I didn’t really believe it until... goddamn.”

Steve, who looked as though he couldn’t decide what to make of the obscenity slotted into the middle of his code name, shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “Can we help you?”

“Right, I haven’t even introduced myself, my bad,” the young man said as he withdrew one hand from his pocket and held it out. “The name’s Johnny. Johnny Storm.” His smile was charming, camera-ready, and completely full of ego. He made Clint think of what Tony must have been like, fresh out of college. Steve shook his hand, then Clint; he couldn’t help noticing how hot the guy’s hand was, past feverish and into “do you have a third degree burn or something” territory. When he shook hands with Natasha, she cut the contact off quickly, and he smirked. Putting his hand back in his pocket, he finally continued, “We’re going to be working with you guys off and on. Thought I’d come introduce myself.”

The name clicked in Clint’s head after a moment, combined with what he’d said before. “Fantastic Four, right?”

“Human Torch, baby,” Johnny grinned. “The suits are, apparently, of the opinion that Doc Doom might be an issue for you guys, and hell, if Doom’s involved I’m there,” he continued, thrusting his thumb at himself. “All of us, really. Reed’s up talking to Stark, but I was told I could find you guys here. Sue and Ben have a... thing,” he waved his hand as though he couldn’t bother himself with the details, “so it’s just the two of us here. Don’t mind me if you want to go back to your training or whatever, just wanted to say hi.”

“No, it’s no bother,” Steve said, shaking his head. “I’m just... I’m afraid I haven’t been fully debriefed on... ...everything,” he finished, lamely.

Johnny laughed. “I’d offer to go a round with you, but you’d probably have me pinned before I even got my jacket off.” Despite the innuendo-y look on the young blonde’s face, Steve stared at him uncomprehendingly while Clint pressed his lips together in a fight not to start laughing. “I’ll show you a bit, though,” Johnny continued, unperturbed, as he removed his hand again and held it palm up. Snapping his fingers, a bright orange flame flared to life and danced across his flesh.

Grinning at the slightly awed look on Steve’s face, Johnny asked, “Pretty cool, huh?”

“Very, ah, cool,” Steve said with the tone of someone who hoped that he was agreeing with whatever was said, and that it was a positive thing. Clint couldn’t help grinning and clapping him on the shoulder. For a massive, genetically modified super soldier, the guy had his adorable moments. And Clint didn’t use the word ‘adorable’ lightly.

“If you want to go a couple of rounds, I’d be more than happy to spar with you,” Clint said. Johnny grinned, and Clint decided he definitely liked the guy.

\----------

The first problem came in the form of the Sinister Six.

Well, one member of the Sinister Six, at least. Clint was stationed on the edge of a building, flat on his stomach, bow in his hands and an earpiece settled where he could hear the team’s back and forth without having to reach up to touch it.

_“Hawkeye, do you have a visual?”_

He had to hand it to the guy. Captain America might have been completely unfamiliar with modern day customs, but he knew what he was doing when it came to directing a team. Shifting just slightly to press down on the communication button buried beneath his armor on his chest, Clint said, “Visual clear. Fishbowl in sight. Should I engage?”

_“Negative. Just keep him in sight. Iron Man, what’s your situation?”_

It took a few moments for Tony to answer, but he sounded like he was assessing when he finally spoke. _“I’ve got full-blown Shawn of the Dead out here. Looks like the further he spreads his mind-whatever, the less control he has over it. They’re just walkers.”_

Clint, despite the situation, couldn’t help sniggering. “Walking Dead references are lame.”

_“But Shawn of the Dead’s damn appropriate, some of them are wandering into the mall.”_

_“Focus,”_ Steve snapped, and surprisingly, Tony shut up. _“What are the walkers doing?”_

Clint rolled his eyes. Great, so that’s what they were going to call them. He could practically hear the smirk in Tony’s voice as he said, _“Nothing, really, just wandering around-- scratch that, they’re trying to push over a truck. Repulsors will tear them to bits. We need to take out fishbowl.”_

Good, so that had stuck, too. “He’s moving,” Clint said, watching Mysterio wave to some goons (he couldn’t hear from this distance) before he began walking. “Cap, he’s moving. I don’t think he’s noticed us still. Iron Man’s probably right, he’s concentrating too much on keeping the zombies together.”

Clint had never had direct contact with Mysterio, but since the guy had decided it would be a good idea to put what felt like half of the city under zombified control, the Avengers had been called in to deal with it. He heard Natasha say something very colorful in Russian, but he didn’t have time to translate it as he saw exactly what she was cursing at.

“Cap, we’ve got a plan change, looks like we’ve got an assistant.” He could just barely hear the distant ‘WOO’ as Spider-Man swept onto the scene on one of his webs and planted both feet in the center of Mysterio’s chest, sending him flying a short distance away. The hired thugs withdrew their guns, but Spider-Man was up and away before they could get off a shot.

_“Shit,”_ Tony muttered under his breath. _“What happened? The walkers all convulsed at once.”_

_“Spider-Boy happened, that’s what,”_ Natasha snapped over her comm. _“We need to move, he’s at least a perfect distraction.”_

_“Affirmative. Sights still good, Hawkeye?”_

“All good, Captain.”

_“Hold him.”_ A flash of blue and red in the corner of Clint’s eye let him know that Steve had decided to roll with the change in plans and was taking out the goons. _“Iron Man, do it,”_ Steve continued, and a distant explosion let him know that Tony was doing his thing.

“I’m gonna kill that kid,” Clint said conversationally as Spider-Man dropped in again, this time landing on Mysterio’s shoulders and sending them both to the ground. He knew that, technically, Mysterio was Spider-Man’s responsibility, since Doc Ock had arranged the Sinister Six to take care of him, but that didn’t mean he could just swing in and kill their plan.

_“Keep it together, Hawkeye. Iron Man, Black Widow, what’s your status?”_

_“Net’s holding, but not for long. They’re chewing on it,”_ Tony said with something like sick fascination in his voice.

_“Secure,”_ was Natasha’s only response.

_“Take the shot when you have the opening, Hawkeye. Don’t hit Spider-Man.”_

Clint didn’t bother responding, shifting off his comm button and shifting into aiming mode. The world grew dead silent around him, his breathing slowed, and everything began to run in slow motion as he watched the flashes of red and blue tangling with green and silver. Read his movements, predict where he’ll move, and...

He let the arrow fly and it struck just below the glass of Mysterio’s helmet. He stumbled back before falling to the ground. Clint watched him for a moment, waiting for movement, before he moved his hand to actually press the button this time. “Neutralized,” he said before smirking at the sight of Spider-Man toeing at Mysterio’s now-unconscious body with probably a great deal of confusion. “Cap, now’s as good a time as any for the recruitment speech.”

_“Containment team is on the way,”_ Natasha said.

_“I think they’re coming out of it,”_ Tony said before laughing. _“One of them’s spitting out a chunk of net. Shit, if I didn’t feel so bad for them this would be great YouTube material.”_

It was only once the team had packed up Mysterio, the police had handcuffed the goons that Steve had knocked unconscious, and Steve himself had moved over towards Spider-Man that Clint got up and stretched languidly. The chatter back and forth over the comms washed over him like so much white noise until a new voice came in. _“How was the net, Tony?”_

Clint froze on the edge of the building near his rope, listening despite himself.

_“Worked great. Think we might need to reinforce it against teeth, though, that hadn’t occurred to me.”_

He heard Banner’s soft, enigmatic laugh and clenched his fist around his bow. He couldn’t stand laughs like that. _“I’ll work on it. How did everything run?”_

_“Eggs in coffee,”_ Steve said, and Tony followed up with, _“Whatever the hell that means.”_

Shaking his head, Clint turned off his comm before pulling on his thick-palmed gloves, grabbing his rope, and starting his quick descent. Chatter was annoying, anyway.

\----------

Unsurprisingly, Spider-Man did not join their team that day. According to Steve, he’d been very vague, but he’d said he wouldn’t mind lending a hand if another problem with the Sinister Six, or Venom, or “another member of his own personal fan club” started causing trouble. He’d been given a phone to hang onto in case they needed to get in touch with him, and then he was gone. Truthfully, Clint was sort of grateful. He was too afraid that having the kid around would translate into babysitting duty of some sort.

The debriefing was held in the same meeting room in Avengers Tower that they’d first met, once they’d all been cleared by medical. The rundown was pretty typical, considering that they still didn’t know what Mysterio’s intention had been. They’d given their individual reports, but Clint wasn’t paying attention during any but his own. He was too busy watching Banner out of the corner of his eye. The doctor was twitchy, he’d noticed that the first time he’d seen him, but he seemed even more agitated today. When he wasn’t making notes about the tech he’d helped design (which included the arrow that had knocked out Mysterio, much to Clint’s chagrin), he was fidgeting with his pen or staring out the window like the last place he wanted to be was inside.

Clint couldn’t help wondering how someone who spent so much time around Tony Stark could stay so restive. He’d almost think it was some kind of weird cover if the guy wasn’t always like that. Of course, he could just be a good actor, but Clint really doubted it. If the guy was a spy, S.H.I.E.L.D. would know it, and maybe people were right when they said he was too paranoid.

Banner looked at him, then, but with Clint’s reflective sunglasses and the angle of his head it would look like he was watching Fury. He watched as Banner flicked his eyes over him, once, and then looked away quickly, even more agitated than before. Clearly, his dislike of the scientist was reciprocated. He admitted that he hadn’t exactly done anything to engender friendship, but that was fine; he didn’t need or even particularly want the guy to like him. He’d learned a long time ago that if you made friends with people you didn’t like, you had to spend even more time with them, and who wanted to put up with that kind of bullshit?

Since he wasn’t listening, he took Natasha standing as his own cue to get to his feet. “Good work today,” Fury said. “We’re expecting another round from the Six now that we have one of their number, but they’ll be more cautious. Keep your guards up.”

“Yessir,” Steve said with a brisk nod, and Clint caught Tony’s eye roll. Yeah, Natasha was right, it was best to stay out of it. He couldn’t help that he found it pretty hilarious, though. Was encouraging it from a distance staying out of it? Probably not.

“God, that was boring,” Tony said the moment Fury and Coulson were gone. “Are all debriefings going to be like that?”

“You should have taken notes,” Steve said, raising his chin defiantly as though daring Tony to start an argument with him. “Debriefings hold useful information. Or do you think you can just remember everything?” he asked, an obvious jab to the past week when Tony had forgotten to set the safety on one of his new repulsor beams and taken out a chunk of the wall.

“I’ve got notes,” Tony said defensively. “I’ve got better than notes, actually. Jarvis, did you get that conversation?”

“In its entirety, sir,” came a cool British voice from... absolutely nowhere, Clint realized as he looked around sharply. “I’ve already made a hard copy down in your lab, as well as saved it to Iron Man’s server. Would you like playback now?”

“Nah,” Tony said, waving his hand at the ceiling. “Label it BDB dash zero zero one, keep up the naming scheme, and throw it in a subfolder. Video, not strict audio, you can pitch that.”

“Very good, sir.”

“The hell was that?” Clint couldn’t help asking, despite his resolve not to speak that much around Banner and indirectly encourage him into conversation.

“Jarvis. You could think of him as a butler, but you’d be wrong,” Tony grinned, taking in Steve’s still-startled expression. “He’s pretty useful, let me just say that.”

“I didn’t know you uploaded him here,” Banner said, his voice irritatingly quiet and unruffled after how twitchy he’d been through the entire meeting.

“Won’t go anywhere without him.”

“Forgive Master Stark,” Jarvis said, and Clint realized that the voice seemed to be coming from all around them. “If there is anything that you require while in residence here in Avengers Tower, do not hesitate to ask.”

“It’s... nice to meet you?” Steve half-said, half-asked. “I’m, uh. Steve Rogers.” He looked completely at a loss as he introduced himself to someone with whom he couldn’t shake hands.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Rogers, Mister Barton, Miss Romanoff.” Clint bit back a smirk at Natasha’s sudden look of distaste at the title.

“Natasha,” she said, folding her arms.

“Miss Natasha, then.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it, apparently unwilling to argue with an AI. Clint was just of the opinion that they needed someone helpful in HQ. Leave it to Stark to have an all-knowing, all-seeing AI developed.

He and Natasha left the room together, and he felt more than heard her sigh. “Every day I hold this job, it gets weirder,” she muttered. “I should probably stop thinking that it can’t get weirder than it already has. I think I’ve been tempting fate.

“Skynet, here we come,” Clint smirked. “Here’s hoping he doesn’t record every damn word said in the tower.”

“Seconded.”

All in all, it hadn’t been a bad day. Clint knew very well that it could always get worse, and it usually did, when he thought like that.

Which was why he wasn’t surprised when it _did_ get worse, just a few days later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guys have any particular Marvel villains or heroes you’d like to show up, just drop me a line and I’ll work them in because I really, really love expansive universes, but my own comic book knowledge is regrettably limited. But we’re getting traces of plot now! Woo!
> 
> Also, to everyone who got that Clint was referencing Boondock Saints in the first chapter: you're my favorite people ever. Because of course Clint would watch Boondock Saints.
> 
> Made an addition to the last chapter's beginning notes, but if you didn't see that, I've made a YouTube playlist for this series that you can find [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLjtTegZWPwpNAGLrkZkrTI00yHsNhutQS) if you like that sort of thing. I'll be adding songs to it when I feel like it, as well as fixing any videos that go private.


	3. ...in which science is done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Does a dance* I have nothing really to put here except my excitement. And I am excited about this story. I’m really glad people are enjoying it so far and I hope I continue to not disappoint. Or don’t start disappointing. Or however it is that the phrase should go. More plot away! (By the way, I bullshit all my Science Bro Science that can’t be easily Googled. Somehow, I don’t think I’m the only one that does.)

Bruce was never very surprised to find Tony outside his door at strange hours (whenever Bruce actually made it to his bed to sleep). Typically, it was to pull him out of slumber and show him whatever it was that he had either made or discovered after more than thirty-six hours with no sleep and enough caffeine to probably start a smart car.

...Caffeine as a fuel for automobiles? He should look into that.

“What is it, Tony?” he asked, rubbing at his eyes. He’d only been in bed for... He looked at the clock. Christ, forty-five minutes. “This had better be important,” he added with an agitated grumble. If only he could lock Tony out of his floor in Stark Tower, his life would be so much easier.

“Come look at this,” Tony said without anything even close to an apology, grabbing Bruce’s wrist and dragging him out of the bedroom. Bruce was at once glad he had collapsed into bed in his clothes, letting his head fall backwards as he trudged mindlessly after the man whose hold on the title ‘Bruce’s best friend’ was currently tenuous at best. “I found it on the roof half an hour ago. Jarvis called my attention to it.”

“If it’s bird shit, I’m going to be angry, Tony, and you know that me angry is not a good thing.”

Tony ignored him and dragged him into the elevator, then down to his workshop. A dismantled car up on a lift, pieces of several old Iron Man suits, a riding lawnmower missing its motor, and (for some reason) the entire DVD collection of Friends were scattered in various parts of the workshop, but for once, the worktable was clean. Bruce stared blearily at the DVDs as they passed. “You don’t even like--”

“They’re Pepper’s, it’s not important,” Tony said as he finally released Bruce’s wrist. Bruce took the opportunity to rub at his eyes roughly before peering at the worktable, which wasn’t as empty as he thought it was, initially. As a matter of fact, it was wet; there was a puddle of water, almost perfectly circular, laying there. It domed slightly, surface tension helping it keep its shape, and it quivered a bit as Tony yanked over his stool and sat down roughly at the table. Pulling on a thin pair of gloves he had developed for handling things that had been placed in liquid nitrogen with more finesse than the usual bulky equipment, he glanced over his shoulder at Bruce. “Seriously, man, watch this.”

Bruce sighed resignedly as Tony moved his hand out to touch the water, which seemed to be repelled by his touch. It didn’t move much, but it definitely did sink in before Tony touched it. When he did, the water spread out from around his finger, creating a perfectly dry surface where his finger had been. After a moment, it slowly closed in, encasing his finger, and then began crawling up his hand. When Tony pulled away, it turned elastic, sticking to his finger and pulling in a long strand before finally releasing him and snapping back. The surface wavered, like gelatin, before stilling again.

That was unexpected, and despite himself, Bruce was definitely interested now. “Okay, I’ll bite, what is it?”

“I have no idea,” Tony said with the sort of manic glee that came from an enormous discovery combined with sleep deprivation. “But get this, when I brought it down to the lab? It was solid. Jarvis, could you bring up the... the... the thing? The footage?” Tony said quickly, waving his hands excitedly at the ceiling as though he was trying to get the attention of God himself.

“Certainly, sir.” A screen on the wall flickered to life, treating them with an off-angle, pseudo-aerial view of the worktable. The timestamp dated it about half an hour previous, just as Tony had said. It showed him coming in with what looked like his coat wrapped up in a bundle. When he moved to the table, he dumped out what looked like an icicle that was pointed on both ends. It was smoking slightly, like it was giving off gas, but it was quickly starting to change. It began melting, but not like any ice Bruce had ever seen; it just started rapidly shrinking and turning into the puddle that he could now see on the table before him.

“Look at that,” Tony breathed, shaking his head. “I measured the temperature of this stuff. It’s as cold as liquid nitrogen but it’s more permanent. It’s, god, I don’t even know what. And when I brought it down, it was _solid_ ,” he repeated, as though it was the most important detail he had.

Bruce stared at Tony, then the screen (where the footage was being played again), then at the worktable. “Nitrogen doesn’t become a solid until it hits sixty-three degrees kelvin. And if this behaves like nitrogen, it should be a gas by now, it boils by the time it hits negative three hundred and twenty one degrees Fahrenheit. If this has been here for half an hour, it should be gone by now.”

“I know,” Tony said, getting a pencil to poke the liquid again. “And that’s the thing. It isn’t even shrinking. It’s not even smoking anymore. It’s maintaining a steady sixty-six kelvin, just like this. Jarvis, you’re still monitoring changes in its temperature, right?”

“Of course, sir. The liquid’s core temperature has increased point zero zero zero zero four degrees Fahrenheit since initial liquefaction. Its temperature change has slowed gradually in the past thirty-four minutes, and I have registered no change at all in the past five minutes.”

“Thank you, Jarvis. How’s that scan coming?”

“Scans for nitrogen, oxygen, and hydrogen have come up negative. Would you like me to scan for synthetics?” 

“Good a place as any,” Tony said as Bruce snapped on a pair of gloves as well and the two began playing with the substance. Cutting it was impossible, and if they tried to actually pick it up, it fell through their fingers as though it was magnetically repelled by them. It reacted badly to heat, and Tony’s acetylene torch had it rolling away across the table as though desperate to get away from it. Even with the burning acetylene so close, Jarvis informed them that there was no change in the internal temperature. When the flame was taken away, the substance calmed down, albeit on the opposite side of the table.

As they tried to make sense of the stuff, they talked. “You just found it on the roof?”

“Jarvis notified me that something had fallen. It was smoking and I knew better than to pick it up with my bare hands, but what was I going to do, just leave it there? Glad I did, too, this thing would have been a bitch to chase down the stairs with a lighter or something.”

“Where did it come from?”

“No idea.”

“No strange phenomena?”

“Shooting star, if you can call that strange, which I really don’t. Nothing really weird going on, atmospherically. No radiation spikes, not a peep from the good ol’ villain radar, and nothing from S.H.I.E.L.D. Of course, that leaves us without an explanation for this.”

“What would happen if we tried to freeze it again?”

“Could work. I’ve got a flash freezer that I’ve modified. It seems to like metal. If we could make a mold for it and chase it in, we could see how it takes it.”

“Think if we stretched it far enough we could break off a sample? We need to get this under a microscope.”

“Think there might be something living in it?”

“God only knows.”

“If we freeze it and then break it... Wonder how it reacts to music.”

“Don’t play it any AC/DC, for the love of god.”

“Damn, I wish more had fallen. We should take it to the tower. The... other tower.”

“You have better equipment here.”

“Yeah, but Capsicle’s familiar with HYDRA tech, and they had that, what, Tesseract thing? Nobody knew what the hell that was, either, so maybe...”

“You think _Steve_ will be able to make sense of anything that we can’t?”

“...good point. I’m just thinkin’ out loud.”

“Besides, I don’t know if we should run the risk of S.H.I.E.L.D. confiscating this just yet.”

“They can’t have my super-reactive gummy water.”

“You are not naming it that.”

“I discovered it. I get to name it.”

“You found this sample, that doesn’t mean you discovered it.”

“Timing is everything in science.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I’m calling it super-reactive gummy water and you can’t stop me.”

“That’s barely descriptive at all.”

“Science!”

Sitting back and pulled his gloves off slowly. Pulling his glasses off, Bruce rubbed at his eyes. “We should find something to keep it in. I need to sleep, and you need to sleep if you expect to be any use at all in training tomorrow. I wouldn’t put it past Natasha to break in here and drag your ass out if she felt like she needed to.”

Tony glared at him, then at the substance on the table, before sighing in a resigned manner and pulling off his own gloves with a snap. “Dammit.”

“Sleep’s good for you occasionally, Tony. Man does not live on coffee and martinis alone.”

“...coffee martinis, there’s a thought.”

Hauling himself to his feet, Bruce left the lab before Tony could get any more bright ideas into his head. Back in his room, he asked Jarvis to lock the door before collapsing onto his bed, the wave of exhaustion that had begun tugging at his limbs in the elevator suddenly making it impossible to walk any more. Sighing, he moved up the bed and tucked his head up under the pillow. Before he could think any further about Tony’s discovery, he was out.

\----------

He was lying on a bed of straw. Outside, there were sounds of laughing, applause, cheering, everything that made him feel sick on the inside. He sat up slowly and looked at himself. Normal clothes: wrinkled purple button-up, rumpled khakis, shoes that probably needed to be replaced. Bruce ran his hand through his hair and swallowed, trying to think through the fog of his thoughts.

Nothing made sense, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t know how it didn’t matter, but it just didn’t.

Before he could stand or move too much, a door slid open. There was a little boy who came in, dragging the wooden door shut behind him. He had burn marks on his bare arms and he was missing his front tooth. Moving over to Bruce, he sat on his knee and offered him a sandwich.

Bruce took it wordlessly.

The boy stared at him critically, tilting his head to the side, before he smiled. “You got big,” he said, but his voice was oddly distant, like he was speaking through glass.

Bruce nodded.

The boy hummed something noncommittal and rubbed his knees with his palms, staring out the windows. “You could help, y’know,” he said, in that same quiet, distant voice. “You could smash stuff. Hulk’s good at that.”

Bruce nodded again before frowning and shaking his head. There was firelight coming from somewhere outside the windows, but he didn’t know where from.

“You know what I think?” the boy asked, but he didn’t wait for Bruce to speak before he continued. “You should stop bein’ scared. They’re strong, an’ yeh’ll juss regret hidin’ one day. Don’t be scared.”

Bruce looked at the sandwich in his hand before over at the window as well. There was a loud crashing sound before sparks flew up outside the window and the sound of laughter filled the air.

“Mebbe I’m dead,” the boy said, his voice even quieter. Bruce looked at him. He was still staring out the window. “Didja ever think of that?”

Bruce nodded.

“Why d’you care? S’a long time ago.”

Bruce shrugged. He didn’t want to speak. Or maybe he couldn’t. He didn’t know the difference.

“S’a long time ago,” the boy repeated. “But I know why yeh can’t forget. S’cause you think mebbe ya coulda done somethin’. Don’t work like that.”

The room they were in caught fire.

Bruce woke up with the sunlight shining on his face, but he woke slowly and easily, the dream fading slowly from his mind. He sat up, rubbed his face, and moved to go and take a shower. He used to have dreams like that all the time, and he always woke up screaming. Now, he still had them all the time, but they were just dreams. That was all they were. He wanted to tell himself they didn't matter. He was getting better at lying to himself, anyway.

\----------

He accompanied Tony to his next trip to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, super-reactive gummy water (he couldn’t believe they were calling it that) held in a small container and wiggling in a rather disturbing fashion. After two straight days of testing, all of which came up negative (“It can’t be made of nothing!” Tony had finally shouted in frustration after he had thrown a clipboard across Bruce’s lab), they had finally agreed that maybe they should take it to a team of superspies who knew about strange substances better than they, apparently, did.

Coulson was the one who met them at the door, before they had a chance to move to the lab or out anywhere else. “You’re here,” he said, as though he wanted to convince them he was surprised at his arrival and didn’t somehow know exactly where they were going to be at every point within the next ten years. “Good, we have something that we want to show you.”

“Yeah, so do we,” Tony said as he held up the tightly sealed container and jostled it a bit. Bruce took it away from him, lest the water reveal some sort of corrosive or explosive property that they hadn’t found yet. “Think you could put something through your most rigorous tests for us?”

Coulson looked bewildered for a split second before he nodded, as though the request was perfectly normal. Bruce had to hand it to the guy, he wasn’t ruffled by much. “Absolutely. What is it?”

“We have absolutely no idea,” Bruce said as he offered out the container. “Don’t touch it with your bare hands, though, it’s as cold as liquid nitrogen and it will burn your skin straight off.”

Catching the container, the agent nodded. “Head to wing seventeen. You remember the way, right, Stark? Just keep Doctor Banner with you at all times, please. Rogers will fill you in on the situation.”

“There’s a situation?” Tony asked, but Coulson was already walking away. “Man, I’m never going to see that stuff again. You were good while you lasted, super-reactive gummy water.”

“If they can’t find a way to kill people with it, you’ll get it back,” Bruce said as he tugged Tony off in what he hoped was the right direction. It turned out it was, as Tony took up the lead after a few moments. “What’s wing seventeen?”

“Containment,” Tony said as they moved down halls and through doorways. Bruce wondered what it would take to get a hold of the blueprints of this place. “Maybe something to do with Mysterio. I hope not, because he said there was a situation, and any situation involving fishbowl is probably not a good thing.”

The room they ended up in was a small conference room. Bruce tensed up when the first person to move was Barton, losing his casual repose with his feet kicked up on the table to plant his boots flat on the ground. Natasha rolled her eyes at him, slightly, and Steve got to his feet. The latter of the three, at least, looked genuinely happy to see Bruce. “Doctor Banner, I wasn’t aware you were called as well.”

“Neither of us were actually called,” Bruce said as he shook Steve’s hand. “And I’ve told you, you can--”

“Bruce, yes, of course,” Steve said, clearing his throat.

“We just happened to be here at the right time, I guess,” Bruce said with a shrug.

“Coulson mentioned a situation?” Tony asked, frowning around at them. “Something happen?”

“We’re not sure,” Natasha said. “S.H.I.E.L.D. picked up a couple of guys who were apparently causing problems in New Jersey. They came quietly, which was weird considering that the two caused a fair amount of property damage before they were recovered. They’ve been in containment for the past thirty-six hours, and so far, all they’re doing is complaining a lot. No threats, no demands to see a lawyer, but some really weird conversation between the two.”

Barton leaned forward and pressed a button next to a speaker in the middle of the table. The sound that filtered through was low-quality, like a regular microphone that was set up to pick up a room’s ambient noises, but the words were discernible. Whoever was on the other side seemed to be in the midst of some sort of argument.

_“...the whole of the realm! I see no reason that we should not simply continue as my plan dictated!”_

_“No reason at all?”_ The sound of pages turning filtered through the speaker. One of them had a book. _“Suffice it to say that your plans are lackluster at best. Say that we did travel so far in the time that you propose. What method of transport do you suggest? We are not flying.”_

_“You cannot fly--”_

_“Then I am not allowing you to carry me such a distance. Honestly. We wait.”_

_“For how long? I cannot stand such an insufferable--”_

_“For as long as we must!”_ It sounded as though the speaker snapped his book shut. _“Were you not listening to our orders? This assignment is indefinite, and if you had not insisted on following me--”_

_“Your foolhardy mission was dangerous! I only meant to provide you support!”_

_“I did not need support to face my own people!”_

_“They are not your people!”_

_“I am not having this argument with you. In any case, I had permission to go. You, however, had no such permission to accompany me. And now we are here to play nice with these--”_

_“You had no such permission!”_

_“Oh, and you were there when I spoke to him about it, were you?”_

_“Father would never have permitted you to--”_

_“He is not my father!”_

_“Brother, we are not having this conversation again!”_

_“Then cease dragging it back into the open! Leave it be!”_

Cringing slightly, Barton hit the button again. He glanced at Bruce warily--he could tell, by the way Barton’s head tilted--before he addressed Tony. “That’s what it’s like. They talk about a mission, which quickly derails into them arguing about family.”

“And they’re in containment why?” Tony asked as Natasha pulled out a photograph from a manila envelope. Taking it, Tony stared at it for a long moment. “...did they do this?”

“They insist it was an accident,” Natasha said. “As one of them put, they... miscalculated the landing?”

Bruce looked over Tony’s shoulder and winced at what he saw. It was the middle of a street that looked like it might have been fairly busy, but there was now a crater that had blown away streetlights, cars, and storefronts. It was perfectly circular. “This is what they call a landing?”

“No one knows what to make of it, and they certainly aren’t making any sense,” Natasha said. “The two wouldn’t be out of place at a renaissance festival, though, and they keep quoting Norse mythology verbatim. If it wasn’t for the crater, I would think the two are a pair of nuts who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. This doesn’t seem to be the case, however.”

Steve rubbed his forehead. “We’ll be talking to them sooner, rather than later. I don’t suppose either of you know what to make of this?” He looked dismayed when both Tony and Bruce shook their heads, but he didn’t look surprised. He just nodded. “Right. Well, we’ll figure it out.”

As they were about to leave, Bruce was struck with the strange urge to say something, anything. However, when he looked and saw that Barton was determinedly not looking at him, the urge died in his throat, and he simply followed Tony out of the room and let the door shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who! *Leaves the really, really bad guessers in suspense indefinitely no I'm not serious I know everyone knows who it is*
> 
> A biiiit shorter than usual, sorry about that. My work week started again! Woo! I’ll be able to post faster on weekends, probably because work kicks my butt and it’s a jerk and I hate it. But I’m still here! Comments? Please? I love them so, they're the lifeblood of my writing. I will whore for comments all day long and nothing anyone can say will stop me! Hahaha!


	4. ...in which Clint fails at Norse terminology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then everyone at my work either got sick or went on vacation and I had to take extra hours that ate my social life! Woo! I promise the story will start getting less convoluted as we go on. This chapter will start us on something that I’m sure is much awaited! Woo again! Everyone who is following this story with me: you’re my favorite people ever. Feedback is super appreciated, especially on a WIP like this. How is it going to end? Your guess is as good as mine.

Clint fidgeted in his seat, fighting the urge to tap his pen against the top of the table and instead just succeeded in clicking the cap on and off one handed. The sound that permeated the room was nothing short of incessant, but no one even glanced at him. How it was that he could spend upwards of eighteen hours dead still in a sniper’s nest was anyone’s guess, as he was widely known as the twitchiest bastard S.H.I.E.L.D. had during any meeting that wasn’t a mission briefing or debriefing going longer than ten minutes.

His leg bounced under the table as he stared at Coulson levelly through the red tint of his sunglasses. When it became obvious that he wasn’t going to say anything, Natasha spoke for him; she had a knack of saying what was on his mind, anyway, since the two of them were so often in sync. “I really hope you have some proof backing this up, because this sounds like a load of crap. I mean this respectfully, of course,” she added belatedly.

“They’re all the proof we need, Agent,” Coulson said. His words were clipped, but his tone was businesslike rather than annoyed. “Besides, S.H.I.E.L.D. has known of the existence of Asgard before this visit.”

“Aliens in leather and plate armor,” Tony muttered under his breath, rubbing his hand over his forehead. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“The fact remains that they have apparently come here as liaisons from Asgard to Earth.”

“His name is Thor,” Tony said, louder this time. “How are we supposed to take someone named Thor seriously? And Loki? We’re trusting a guy who willingly calls himself Loki?”

“It sounds more like they actually think they _are_ Thor and Loki,” Clint finally snapped, despite Natasha’s hand on his forearm. “And everyone is okay with this?”

“I’m not,” Tony said, raising his hand.

“H.Y.D.R.A. has already had access to Asgardian technology in the past,” Coulson said, ignoring Steve’s wince as he pulled out a manila envelope and laid it out on the table. “This is not news to us. It isn’t even news to any of you.”

“I didn’t know Asgard meant Norse-God-Land.”

“What does that even mean, liaisons from Asgard to Earth?” Natasha asked after a long moment. “Some sort of peace mission? Are they looking for allies? And, if so, why would they come to us for that?”

“These are questions much better answered by the two of them,” Coulson said. “If you don’t want to talk to them, then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

He wasn’t at all put off by the glares being sent in his direction. Rather, he unrepentantly snapped his papers into a neat pile and slid them into a manila envelope, getting to his feet. It was a clear dismissal, but the four stayed absolutely still even after the suited man had disappeared through the doorway and down the hall. Steve had been quiet the entire time, and Clint couldn’t determine if his fidgeting was because he was as disconcerted by this whole affair as the rest of them, or he was trying to sort out room for Asgardian demi-gods in his very clearly Father-Son-Holy Ghost world view. If nothing else, Clint actually found himself feeling pretty bad for the world’s most powerful fighter.

“So,” Tony said, loudly and in a way that did not dissolve the tension in any form, “who’s up for a chat with some Viking relics?”

\----------

Thor was--and Clint didn’t like admitting it, because he’d gone into this meeting determined to be as prickly and unlikeable as possible--a charming as hell guy. He didn’t seem put off at all by Clint’s cold demeanor (a point in his favor that Banner didn’t have, at least), even going so far as to laugh quite loudly, slap him on the back, and call him ‘Clinton’ when they had barely been introduced.

His brother (were they brothers? They didn’t look like they could possibly be related) was another matter entirely. He was all pale skin to Thor’s tanned and scarred flesh, awkward angles and long limbs to the other’s well-toned muscles and sheer size, and disdainful glances and eye rolls to his brother’s open smiles and booming laughs. Yes, Clint could easily see why this one would be called Loki. His disdainful look was something straight out of story and song, and he was almost positive that if he glared at a glass of water it would freeze solid in record time.

The beginning of the meeting had started predictably enough, for an Avengers meeting. As Steve was their leader, he was allowed to make the initial overture. He was all ramrod-straight spine and military perfect posture, but he didn’t get much past, “My name is Steve Rogers. You must be--” before the (somehow even larger) blonde in the silver armor and red cape clasped his wrist in a handshake Clint knew was traditionally utilized to make sure neither party had a knife hidden up their sleeve.

“Yes, one of the Midgardians!” he had exclaimed, his voice loud enough that even Natasha looked taken aback and a strangled sound that was definitely an aborted laugh escaped Tony’s nostrils. “Of course! It is quite an honor to meet you! I hear that you four are exceptional warriors!”

Steve, rarely one to be ruffled, looked almost nonplussed as he returned the handshake. “Ah... yes.”

The other so-called Asgardian regarded their group with startlingly electric green eyes that somehow found Clint’s gaze unerringly, despite the military-grade plastic of his sunglass lenses separating them. An odd sense of unease crawled up his spine and he glanced away, fleetingly, only to see out of the corner of his eye that the bastard was now _smirking_ and, seriously, how was he doing that?

At a loss for what else to do, Steve bade them all sit at the table. Strategically, the four (humans? Midgardians?) Avengers ended up on one side of the polished wood, the two (gods? Asgardians?) visitors positioned across from them.

The details were as startlingly simple as Coulson had been attempting to make them believe, at least according to their two armored guests. Of course, their approaches in communication varied greatly, Loki choosing his words with far greater care than Thor.

According to Thor, they were here on a friendly mission, a task set them by their father, and they wanted to do whatever they could to assist their Midgardian friends with the dangers that might plague their realm. (True story.)

According to Loki, Odin had taken Midgard under his protection ever since an attack on the realm by (what the hell was a yotinhime?) and had ordered them to take up residence on Midgard for the foreseeable future. Apparently, there was some danger from the other realms; as far as Odin was concerned, an attack on Midgard was an attack on Asgard. He had artfully combined a so-called punishment for the two of them into extra protection for the humans.

As unnerving as he was, Clint was more likely to believe Loki’s words than Thor’s.

He had to admit, if their purpose was protecting Midgard, they couldn’t have picked a better place to get incarcerated for a while. They had already been subjected to some form of physical test, which had apparently been enough to satisfy the higher ups that they were at least decidedly not human. The fact that Steve couldn’t pick up the hammer Thor lifted so easily and Loki summoned a book out of the ether mid-meeting didn’t hurt the decision that was made, either.

Clint shouldn’t have been surprised when, half an hour later, he left the room with two new teammates.

Oh, he _was_ surprised. He just shouldn’t have been.

\----------

How he had been the one roped into this, he didn’t know.

Well, no, actually, he did. Natasha was in Italy, of all places, and Tony was currently giving some sort of conference that had to do with the company he was still managing to keep afloat despite his extracurricular activities. Steve, for his part, was still so uncomfortable with Thor and Loki that he had practically begged Clint to do this job for him, and come on, you don’t say no to Captain America when he’s giving you big sad blue puppy dog eyes without even realizing it.

“Midgardian technology is simply fascinating,” Thor was commenting as Clint swiped a key card, a door sliding open with a soft hydraulic hiss. It was probably the fifth time he’d said that in the past three hours alone, but the guy had been around for four days, so he was already starting to get used to it. The archer just noncommittaled at him and waved them through before following.

“The things you have achieved without aid of magic! Truly, your machines are something to be admired!”

“Thor, cease your gawking or I swear upon the orchards of Idunn that I will not be responsible for my actions,” Loki said, his voice managing to sound incredibly contrite and put-upon without so much as dimming Thor’s expression.

Clint smirked a little. “You could try shutting him in one of these doors. That might get the message across.”

“I will take that under consideration.” Loki sounded perfectly serious, as well, and the fact that Thor just laughed had Clint grinning as well.

Okay, maybe he had been a bit rash. They were weird as all hell, no denying that, but they sort of weren’t bad company. He could probably get used to having them around. A little bit.

He carefully wiped his face of all expression before he raised his hand and rapped his knuckles sharply against the bulletproof glass closing off the lab that Banner had been sequestered into. He glanced up over the rims of those damn glasses that he wore whenever he was reading, badly concealing his look of surprise before he just nodded once. Clint assumed that meant it wasn’t locked and slid the door open, entering the lab with Thor and Loki in tow.

It occurred to him, belatedly, that Banner hadn’t met the two Norse gods. At least they had been talked into wearing something slightly more normal, though Clint privately thought that Thor’s jeans and t-shirt next to Loki’s suit made them look like an “I’m a PC, I’m a Mac” commercial. Still, it was going to be awkward as hell actually having to speak to Banner during this encounter, so hopefully he’d just be able to do the introductions and then perch himself in the corner until he was ready to leave. Somehow, though, he didn’t think that was happening.

He put on his ‘official’ voice, jerking his head towards the two he’d dragged along with him. “I’m assuming you’ve heard about the princes of Asgard, Thor and Loki,” he said quickly. “Thor, Loki, this is Doctor Banner. He’s the one that’s been studying the substance Agent Coulson asked you to take a look at.”

“A doctor,” Loki said mildly before Thor could speak, holding his hand out to Banner and demonstrating that he, at least, knew the proper way to conduct a handshake. “Intriguing. You are no healer, are you? I suppose the term is applied more loosely here on Asgard.”

“I’m qualified to perform the duties of a physician, but it’s not my field, no,” Banner said as he adjusted his glasses, and Christ, did he have to make everything he said and did seem so self-depreciating? How had this guy lived with Tony Stark so long? “Agent Coulson told me you would be coming. Let me get the sample for you. It’s the only one we have, regrettably, and I don’t know if you’ll recognize it. He thought that since the two of you have experience with magic, you’ve got a leg up on us, so to speak.”

Thor looked as excited as Clint had seen him, ready to see what new wonder the Midgardians might have for him now. Loki, one eyebrow raised, was at least managing to look intrigued. Clint hooked a stool with his ankle and pulled it over, perching himself on the edge to wait. Banner pulled out what looked like a large silver thermos and pulled the top off, pouring something thick, clear, and gelatinous out onto the lab table. If Clint didn’t know better, he’d think it was liquid plastic.

Loki caught his breath briefly before moving towards it, holding his hand near it, but Banner’s voice stopped him. “It’s really cold,” he warned. “I mean, I don’t know how this sort of thing works for you, but it’s cold enough to burn the skin straight off a human.”

“Thank you, but the warning is hardly necessary,” Loki said, his brief nod at Banner an apparent attempt at mollification. “If nothing else, I recognize exactly what it is.”

“You do?” Banner asked, surprised, before watching as Loki reached down to touch the surface of the substance. The stuff immediately began wrapping around Loki’s fingers and up his arm, fitting him like a glove. Thor made a soft, choked off sound when Loki’s skin began to...

...it was turning blue under the stuff. Not just ‘fuck this is cold’ blue, but honest-to-God cerulean, complete with raised marks in his skin. That was not normal, and the look on Banner’s face proved he hadn’t been expecting this either.

“Brother,” Thor said, looking as though he was about to be angry. “Is that--?”

“Jotun ice, yes,” Loki agreed in the murmured voice of the distracted (not even protesting the title as he had on all other occasions), holding his hand up and turning it this way and that as the substance coated his hand all the way to the wrist. It looked like it was trying to disappear under his sleeve but was having a difficult time of it. “And no, it isn’t mine,” he said in a clearer voice, directing a sharp glance to Thor.

Thor most definitely appeared angry now, but he bit down on anything he might have said as Loki’s look turned cutting. “Tell me,” Loki continued, addressing Banner without taking his eyes off Thor, “what state did you find this in?”

“I didn’t, Tony did,” Banner said, still staring at Loki’s hand like he’d never seen anything of the sort before. He probably hadn’t. Clint sure as hell hadn’t. “It was a solid chunk about... this big,” he demonstrated with his hands held about a foot apart, “maybe a couple of inches thick, like an icicle sharpened on both sides.”

“Mm,” Loki murmured, lowering his hand back to the table. He flexed his hand and the substance slid off, pooling around his fingertips before he pulled away. Rubbing at his blue hand with his other palm, he turned his gaze up to Banner. “This is, without a doubt, Jotun ice. It’s melted in this state, of course, but the composition will prevent it from truly reaching the temperature of its surroundings.”

“All right,” Banner said slowly, as though that made any kind of sense, and maybe Clint could kind of see how he’d put up with Tony all this time, “why exactly would there be Jotun ice here on Midgard?”

“It looks like the all-father was more intuitive than I had originally thought,” Loki said, his voice a low murmur that sounded both annoyed and grudgingly respectful. The blue of his hand was turning paler as the warmth returned to it, but he ignored it as he spoke in a firmer voice. “What you found was actually a seed, of sorts.”

“A seed,” Banner repeated. “What grows from it?”

“A beast,” Loki said with an idle shrug. “A Jotunheim beast. When left unattended, they seek out sources of cold and liquid, growing larger and larger until they turn into... well. Suffice it to say, the results are not pretty.”

Thor looked horrified. “You mean those things in Jotunheim might start appearing here on Midgard?”

“There is no _might_ about it, Thor,” Loki said, exasperated now. “They most definitely will. There is no way that Jotun ice on Midgard is an accident. What I don’t understand is why,” Loki frowned, his eyes on the melted ice. “It’s more than clear that Laufey has every intention of bringing Midgard to its knees. It’s been his mission for longer than you and I have been alive. Still, as invasion tactics go, it’s...” He waved one hand, as though searching for the word, before deciding on, “...inefficient. There are much more practical ways about going to war.”

“Loki,” Thor chided, “how can you be so flippant about this?” 

“I am no such thing. I am simply observing.”

“Look, what I’m getting from this,” Banner interrupted as though sensing an argument, “is that there is probably more of this stuff around and that we’re going to have one hell of a problem on our hands if we don’t find them before they sprout into things that will delight in ripping faces off. Is that what I’m hearing?”

“Succinct,” Loki agreed with a shrug.

“Fabulous,” Banner deadpanned before removing his glasses, massaging at the bridge of his nose. Clint could sympathize with that, in the very least. He grunted softly before speaking into his palm. “Loki, is there any way you could either come up with a way to track down this ice or help me to do it? We’ve tried running scans on it, but we can’t come up with any recognizable substances. Of course, if it’s from another realm, that makes sense. But we need to find as much of this stuff as we can before it turns into... well.”

Loki nodded once, watching as Banner managed to put the stuff away in its thermos again. “We will devise a plan, doctor, of that you should have no doubt.”

“I doubt I will be of much assistance in this stage,” Thor confessed, frowning at the thermos with his impressive arms firmly crossed over his chest. “However! These beasts are creatures that I have fought in the past. In the event that one rears its ugly head, have no fear. I shall vanquish it.”

Clint found himself smiling despite himself, because really, did the guy actually just say vanquish completely non-ironically? Banner looked slightly taken aback as he said, “Um, thank you, Thor.”

“It is my pleasure, my bespectacled friend,” Thor declared while giving Banner a thump on the back that (by all rights) should have had him crashing through the table and into the wall. As it stood, Banner just stumbled forward a bit and let out a slightly awkward cough.

“Give me time to ponder it,” Loki said with a brief nod. “Will you be present in these facilities come tomorrow, doctor?”

“Ah, yes, I should be,” Banner said. “If not there, then Avengers Tower, which... I’m told you two haven’t actually been to yet.”

“The training facility! I am most eager to see it,” Thor said before turning to Loki and looking at him imploringly. “Might we visit it tomorrow? I am most eager to see how our new comrades do battle!”

“I suppose,” Loki muttered with a roll of his eyes. “Though you’ll have to take the matter up with our keepers,” he added, spitting the last word somewhat venomously. He relented after a moment and held one hand up before Thor could say anything. “I understand the necessity,” he said, cutting him off. “But the decision is, for the time being, not mine to make. Perhaps Steven would be a better ally in this than me.”

“I shall speak to him as soon as our paths cross!” Clint smirked. That’d be a fun conversation.

“You two done, then?” he asked, pushing himself off the stool and raising an eyebrow when Banner visibly started. Apparently, he’d forgotten that Clint was there, and he sent him a wary look before busying himself with a clipboard. He couldn’t see from this distance, but Clint was prepared to bet that there wasn’t a damn thing on the papers he was currently thumbing through.

“I suppose,” Loki said with one last glance around the lab. As a magic user, he was probably fascinated by a ‘cavern of Midgardian magic’, as he had referred to it upon learning that he would be visiting Banner. Well, he’d be getting more opportunities to learn science in the future, so Clint didn’t really feel bad about dragging him out now.

He didn’t look back at Banner as he took Thor and Loki out of the lab. He also pretended he didn’t feel Banner’s eyes following him until long after he had passed beyond the scope of the glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah I’m sorry that this took so long. I’m very serious, I’ve been working so much that I think I’m going to have to call my parents and re-introduce myself. But look, plot, and Bruce and Clint in the same room for an extended period of time! Next chapter will actually have some interaction between the two of them. Like, honest-to-god talking. For reals. Man, when I say ‘slow burn’, I don’t kid around, apparently.


	5. ...in which Bruce ruins Tony's Lucky Charms (and that's not a euphamism).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Let’s see if I can fail less this time. (Hey look, guys, this was practically a double upload since I just posted.) Hints at possible pseudo-but-not-really-incest. Take it as you will. You'll start seeing where my other ship loyalties lie, but they'll be background referenced or, at best, secondary in this story and completely ignorable.
> 
> Also: Bruce thinks parenthetically a lot. And I mean, a lot.

“Don’t you think it’s weird?”

He was so used to non-sequiturs hitting him out of nowhere that he didn’t even look up. Bruce did, at least, paused long enough to place his well-bitten pencil between his teeth and bend over the machine he was currently poking away at, hoping he was discovering the source of the rather worrying hum that emanated from it every single time it was turned on.

Tony, as was his wont, took his silence as acquiescence to continue the conversation (which it wasn’t). “Thor and Loki, I mean.”

“Mm,” Bruce muttered around his pencil.

Obviously, Tony was looking for a reaction, and he wasn’t going to stop until he got one. “I mean, come on, Bruce. Thor... and Loki...” He trailed off in what he clearly thought was a meaningful fashion, waving his hands encouragingly when Bruce refused to take the bait. “Don’t you think it’s... you know. Weird?”

Finally, Bruce pulled the pencil out of his mouth and sat back just slightly. “I’m assuming you mean weirder than the fact they’re basically mythological gods come down to earth complete with Mjölnir and the ability to manipulate the weather and magic, and are also about as far removed from human as you can get, right?”

“Right,” Tony said, as though Bruce’s words hadn’t struck him as sarcastic in the slightest. “I mean, have you ever watched the two of them together? Half the time it’s like they want to claw each other’s eyes out. Well, Loki wants to claw Thor’s out, anyway--”

“Historically accurate, so far.”

“And the other half, it’s like... I don’t know. It’s just weird,” Tony said, throwing his hands up. “They’re so close sometimes, like the way they sit at meals and the way they talk to each other when they’re not mad and it’s... it’s just...”

Bruce pressed down on his amusement to give Tony what he hoped was a convincingly unimpressed look. “They’re brothers, Tony, and besides, two people exchanging physical contact doesn’t mean they’re sleeping together.”

“It could!”

“Then should I give you and Steve your privacy? He certainly has you flat on your back often enough.”

Tony spluttered in indignation and bit out something that sounded like ‘it’s not like that’ which proved it was exactly like that, but Bruce seriously didn’t care on the best of days and certainly not right now.

“Look,” he said as he leaned back over the machine he and Loki had been working with (and he was almost positive it was half-magic and disassembling it entirely would cause some sort of nuclear meltdown), “I think they’re just close in a really weird way. Maybe there _is _something between them, but either way, it’s hardly your business. Besides,” he said, speaking over Tony’s protest, “they could be joint managers of a harem of llama-people for all I care. It has nothing to do with me. You just have a complex that makes you feel entitled to knowing everything about everyone else’s business.”__

__“That was completely unwarranted,” Tony said, looking offended (but not really offended). “It’s just--”_ _

__“Weird,” Bruce cut him off. “It’s none of your business. So what if they are? I mean, they’re not exactly human and they aren’t even really related, as I’m given to understand. You’re exactly the kind of guy who would fantasize over sleeping with a hot step or adopted sibling, anyway. Glass houses.”_ _

__Tony didn’t argue, which was as close as he ever got to conceding defeat. Bruce took it at face value. “Come look at this,” he said after a long moment, sliding his stool to the side a bit to permit Tony to bend over his work and start poking at it with his own screwdriver._ _

__“Huh. Is this the sample you’ve been working with? He managed to separate it?”_ _

__“It bends to his will, so I don’t see why it wouldn’t.”_ _

__For the past three weeks, Bruce had seen a lot of Loki, which meant he had seen a lot of Thor. This also, regrettably, meant he’d seen a lot of Barton, as the agent had been assigned to keep the two Asgardians in line and followed them around like a sullen guard dog. As their visits generally went, Barton would sit on a stool in the corner and make himself invisible, while Loki and Bruce worked and Thor occasionally helped._ _

__Bruce had been anticipating Loki being quite useful with this project, considering his vast knowledge of magic and the fact that he’d known what the Jotun ice (thank god the name gummy water hadn’t stuck) was. Thor, on the other hand, had a staggering amount of engineering knowledge that almost stunned Bruce for the few moments it took for him to think, _“Of course he does, the man is an Asgardian god and a crown prince, and I can only imagine the sort of mechanisms they have where he lives.”_ Loki seemed to tolerate Thor’s input with a sort of indulgent irritation, as odd as that thought was, and actually appeared content to back off when Thor and Bruce began fine-tuning the actual equipment that would house the..._ _

__Whatever it was._ _

__Bruce didn’t like admitting that he didn’t understand, absolutely perfectly, the things on his lab table. Unfortunately, this tracker was one of those things that he just didn’t entirely get. Of course, again, it was probably fifty percent (if not more) magic, but he was the one who was expected to make it work. In essence, Loki had discovered the formula (with help from Bruce of his knowledge of radiation and the atmosphere and structure of Earth itself) to track down the pieces of Jotun ice, while Thor had helped craft a machine that could actually make the formula useful. Tony, too, had put in his two cents on the device when he’d dropped by the lab, and they’d made something that was somewhat like a device you might have seen on Star Trek._ _

__It was a metal box, essentially, the workings curving around a small vial holding a sample of the Jotun ice. It was about a foot square, complete with a screen Bruce had ripped off Tony’s old iPod Touch set in the top._ _

__He might not have fully understood _how_ it worked or have been able to recreate it on his own, but he knew that it would and was confident that he would be able to read the output when they actually put the thing into action. Loki had assured him that the ice would move slowly, and anyway, if any Jotunheim Beasts had sprung up in Midgard, they’d certainly know about it. Bruce had no doubt of that, actually. The news stations across the world would be all over a giant ice thing suddenly terrorizing people._ _

__Tony sat back and carded a hand back through his hair, which was already a disaster. Grinning a little, he said, “Think we could patent this shit once everything’s done?”_ _

__Bruce didn’t even dignify him with a look, sliding his stool back over and bending over his project. “Get out of my lab.”_ _

__\----------_ _

__The first time the device was turned on, it had made a horrible screeching noise that had probably set everyone in their wing on edge. Bruce had certainly felt as though his own teeth were trying to make a dramatic leap from his head as he gracelessly fumbled for the switch that would silence it._ _

__The second time wasn’t much better._ _

__The third time, the hum that escaped was much quieter, but still decidedly Very Not Good._ _

__He’d never heard that the fourth time was the charm, but that was apparently his life now._ _

__“Look at that,” Bruce muttered, even as Thor and Loki leaned over either of his shoulders to squint at the small screen that now bore a flat globe and a worrying number of pale white pinpricks. A lot of them were in the ocean--nothing they could do about those, he lamented--but they were dotted across both Americas, Europe and Asia, and a large chunk of Africa. Those in Australia looked like they had already started attempting to move to the furthest edges of the island._ _

__Responding to water, no doubt._ _

__“Do not look so glum, friend,” Thor said in what he probably thought was a bracing way as he thumped Bruce on the back. “This is a good first step! Loki and I may move freely here in Midgard, and with coordinates and destinations in mind, we shall be able to nullify this threat post haste together!”_ _

__Bruce nodded at him, glad that only one of the Asgardians was so prone to such physical displays. He liked Loki, but he really doubted he could tolerate the other man touching him for a long period of time. Rather than confiding that, he said, “I’ll get this to Director Fury. Looks like the Avengers were pulled together just in time.”_ _

__“Indeed, my friend!”_ _

__As the two maybe-but-sort-of-not-brothers engaged in a quick debate over how best to go about their plans (“I work better alone, Thor.” “If we team up, things will go more quickly!” “That is patently untrue and you are aware of it.” “At least allow me to watch your back, Loki.” “Because that worked so well on Vanaheim.” “That was one time!”), Bruce manipulated the device in his hands to shut it off. It practically purred as it fell silent, and he was a little worried about that, though not so worried as to suggest starting over. They really didn’t have time._ _

__Absorbed in his own thoughts as he was, he practically jumped out of his skin when he heard someone clear their throat right in front of him. He looked up to see Barton just on the other side of the table, face impassive as always but with an undertone of tension that seemed to be wholly unique to his interactions with Bruce. Honestly, he frequently forgot that the agent was actually there when working, he was so quiet and unobtrusive. But being reminded of Barton’s presence when he stood to escort Thor and Loki away was one thing. Being reminded of it when he was two feet away and staring at him as though about to face the greatest challenges of his life was quite another._ _

__He realized that, for some reason, Barton was attempting to engage him in conversation, or at least some sort of interaction. It was a novelty, and not exactly an unwelcome one, though awkward as all hell. Still, it was a significant moment, and it required something equally significant in response._ _

__“Um,” was what he came up with, and he probably would have slapped his forehead if Barton’s eloquence had stretched beyond a throat clearing._ _

__“That thing,” Barton said, nodding sharply to the device in Bruce’s hands. “What do you call it?”_ _

__“Um,” Bruce repeated, because it had worked so well for him the first time and there was no sense in fixing what wasn’t broken. His eyes moved to the box and he turned it over in his hands. “I don’t know. It doesn’t really... have a name. I guess I’ll give it one if it ever really needs one.”_ _

__When he looked up at Barton again, questioning, he saw something twitch in the agent’s jaw. He was clenching his teeth, arms held stiffly at his sides, and Bruce had the irrational urge to defend himself from a punch. Of course, that would end with a big green problem, so hopefully they could avoid that._ _

__But what he got wasn’t a punch. Barton just nodded, once. “It’s... impressive,” he finally said, his words sounding almost as though they were causing him physical pain to say. For all Bruce knew, they were. “I mean, you know, that it’s only been three weeks,” Barton clarified._ _

__“Um.” He really needed to come up with other ways to start sentences. “Thank you.”_ _

__Apparently, Barton had decided he’d done his civic duty as he nodded again and turned on his heel to usher Thor and Loki, still bickering, from the room. Against his better judgment, Bruce spoke up the moment the door slid open. “Agent Barton,” he called, and it was at least a better opener than ‘um’ and had the spy turning to look at him through his all-seeing sunglasses. He seemed impatiently expectant, as though he had assumed that all interaction with them for the better part of five years was now done. Bruce immediately regretted calling out to him, but knew it would be worse to tell him never mind. “I... heard what you said about your zip lines over the comms, the other day. If you want, I could... you know. Take a look at them.”_ _

__He didn’t really expect a response, and was almost floored when Barton looked like he was considering it. Finally, he just said, “Yeah,” and then he was gone. Bruce found himself staring at the closed door for the better part of half an hour after that, wondering what the hell had just happened and why that conversation had felt even remotely significant._ _

__\----------_ _

__All told, there were two hundred shards of Jotun ice around the world, counting those that had fallen into the ocean. Since there apparently wasn’t actually a way to destroy it, they had been divided into retrieval teams, Quinjets taking the various groups around the continents by following coordinates sent by S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ. It had only taken a month to gather those that had scattered on land, and apparently there had been some pretty epic battles with the ice that had managed to make contact with enough water to spawn a Beast, but it had been too easy._ _

__Particularly for all the buildup to it._ _

__Bruce had spent most of that month feeling entirely useless. He wasn’t a field fighter and he didn’t want to be, not really wanting the Other Guy running rampant anywhere for any reason at all, but despite the fact that the entire mission had been made possible by him he’d had nothing to do but sit around and feel like he was taking up space._ _

__Of course he was taking up space. He was human, that was what humans did, and that was a terrible analogy._ _

__When the Avengers, as well as the Fantastic Four, the X-Men, and the S.H.I.E.L.D. strike teams that had been dispensed for retrieval, had returned... well, Loki had basically said that there was a reason it had been so easy._ _

__“A distraction?” Steve had asked, automatically shifting into ‘worst case scenario’ mode. Came from living through World War II, Bruce supposed._ _

__“No,” Loki said, shaking his head with a frown. “That was a warning. I haven’t the slightest idea what notion Laufey has gotten into his head, but he wants to remind Midgard that Jotunheim exists and is still powerful. He knows Odin won’t risk taking Asgardian armies down here, it was a disaster the last time. Midgard has changed too much for your citizens to be able to cope with it.”_ _

__If the rest of Asgard looked like Thor and Loki, then Bruce could totally understand that. He still had a hard enough time coping with the two of them._ _

__Unfortunately, sending a liaison to Jotunheim was out of the question, and Odin’s only advice (apparently) had been for Thor and Loki to figure it out themselves. This led to them... well. Waiting._ _

__“Of course,” Natasha said conversationally, “there’s something else we really should consider.”_ _

__“And what would that be?” Coulson asked over the edge of his papers._ _

__“Well, that first one, the sample we had? It was sheer dumb luck that we found it, because it landed on Stark Tower. We have to take into consideration the thought that, perhaps, other people found it, too, and have found ways to contain it that assure they don’t show up on Bruce’s ice radar thing. I don’t know what they would do with it, or even if they _could_ do something with it, but we have to keep it in mind.”_ _

__Everyone agreed. It was bad enough that even Loki wasn’t positive what all the ice was capable of. The thought of it in the hands of someone like Doctor Doom was enough to send a collective shiver across the table._ _

__That, of course, didn’t change the fact that they had nothing to do but wait and see what happened._ _

__\--------_ _

__There were now five living floors in Avengers Tower, with a sixth and seventh under construction._ _

__Bruce had insisted, repeatedly, that he didn’t need a room there, much less a whole floor. He had a whole floor at Stark Tower and he hadn’t known what to do with all of that space there, either. But Tony had insisted that, since he was kind of sort of a member of their team, he needed space there too. The office and meeting floors came first, followed by the communal living area, then Tony’s, his, Barton’s, Steve’s, and Natasha’s. He didn’t know whether to attribute the fact that he never heard Barton moving up above his head to good workmanship or the fact that Barton was just creepily quiet. Considering how often he could hear AC/DC blaring below him, he was quite willing to bet the latter._ _

__Still, he had to admit it was an oddly comfortable living arrangement. It meant the Avengers could all hang out in one place without anyone needing to be escorted if they wanted to go further than three feet, and with them all living under one roof, Bruce could actually watch as the team really turned from just a group of extraordinary people to almost family._ _

__It made him ache, just slightly, knowing that he wasn’t a part of that. But considering that the alternative was worse, he pushed the thoughts aside. He liked being sought after for his mind. He shuddered to think of what the alternative would have been, if Tony hadn’t come for him._ _

__Lying flat on his back and staring at his ceiling, Bruce realized he was dwelling. He was also hungry, which was not a good combination, for him. Squinting at the clock, he realized it was past one in the morning, but he didn’t really care. He needed food, any kind of food, and hopefully it would be enough to distract him long enough for sleep._ _

__He made his way to the elevator and down to the communal floor on bare feet, scratching at the loose gray t-shirt and thinking that he probably really should just try to go to sleep. Unfortunately, Bruce knew his own brain well enough to know that it didn’t really work that way. He’d just lie awake, thinking about how hungry he was, until he finally caved and got a bagel or something. Might as well give into temptation now._ _

__The light was already on when he stepped into the (far too large) kitchen and, despite himself, he really wasn’t surprised to see Barton already down there, picking at a couple of pieces of toast that looked like they’d had cheese melted on them and bacon sprinkled on top. He rose his head immediately, which didn’t surprise Bruce either, as Barton was as observant as a hawk (ha; and if that was funny, he really did need sleep). He didn’t have his sunglasses on (of course not, it was one in the morning) and Bruce found himself struck by how... well, _blue_ his eyes were, even at this distance._ _

__The two of them had formed something of a silent agreement since the last time they had spoken, which had been in Bruce’s lab. They didn’t exactly ignore each other, not really, but they didn’t speak. Still, they exchanged civil enough head nods as they saw each other, at least acknowledging that they both had the right to exist. It was something._ _

__Said head-nod exchange completed, Bruce moved over to find his bagels and popped one in the toaster, staring at the mechanism until it popped up. Both halves on a plate, cream cheese, butter knife, and--_ _

__“What the hell?” he couldn’t help asking as he turned around to stare at the island. There were two large plastic containers, both half full; one contained Lucky Charms marshmallows, and the other contained Lucky Charms sans marshmallows. Barton looked up at him at the unexpected outburst, following his gaze to the two containers._ _

__If there was one thing he had learned about Barton through stories of his interactions with other people, it was that he had a hard time not speaking his mind when he wanted to. Half a piece of toast in his hand, he pointed towards the containers. “Tony,” he said by way of explanation, as though it was sufficient. And it probably was. Swallowing around his mouthful, Barton added, “He spent, like, an hour separating them earlier today.”_ _

__Bruce stared thoughtfully at the containers before setting his bagel down and removing both of the lids. Without hesitation, he dumped the marshmallows back into the regular cereal, closed the lid, and shook it rather thoroughly. After a moment, he removed the lid long enough to extract a single marshmallow, plopping it back in the now-empty second container with an audible ‘plunk’. Both lids were returned and he looked up to find Barton staring at him._ _

__God, were his eyes blue._ _

__“A Tony complaining about having to redo something is ten times less annoying than a Tony who’s bored,” he said by way of explanation._ _

__Barton looked like--god help him, but Bruce thought his eyes must have been playing tricks on him at that point--he looked like he wanted to _laugh _. He didn’t, but the corners of his lips were twitching, and that was more expression than he’d been able to get out of the guy in the entire time they’d known each other. Barton nodded at the chair across the table from him, and Bruce took the hint, bringing over the entire carton of orange juice with his bagel and cream cheese.___ _

____They sat in silence as they both ate, and it was actually considerably less awkward than Bruce had imagined it would be. It wasn’t comfortable, by any means, but he found himself actually able to look at Barton and see the man rather than the agent, for the first time. Without his body armor and sunglasses, he looked like a different guy entirely. Slightly mussed blond hair, illegally blue eyes and why the hell could he not get over that, a faded Captain America t-shirt that he probably just wore to ruffle Tony’s feathers, a smattering of freckles over his nose and cheeks..._ _ _ _

____“What?” Barton asked, warily. Of course Hawkeye would catch him looking. Stupid._ _ _ _

____“Nothing,” Bruce said, looking back at his bagel as he pulled a chunk out of it. “I think this is just the first time I’ve ever seen you in a non-official capacity, that’s all.”_ _ _ _

____Barton made a soft grunt that Bruce chose to take for agreement. “Hey, doc,” he said, addressing Bruce directly for the first time in, well, ever. “You know, about those zip lines...”_ _ _ _

____“Yeah?”_ _ _ _

____“The ones I’ve got, they’re...” Barton frowned, though it wasn’t at Bruce; he was staring into the middle distance and looked mostly annoyed with himself at not knowing how he wanted to phrase his sentence. His left hand raised to begin rubbing a leather thong around his neck between his fingers. It disappeared down into his shirt, blocking whatever was on it from view, and for just a few moments Bruce was irrationally curious. “They’re shit,” he finally said, drawing Bruce’s attention away from the necklace and back to the conversation. “And I’ve seen the Widow’s Bite you made Nat. You do good work.”_ _ _ _

____“Thank you,” Bruce said, for lack of anything else to say._ _ _ _

____“So if you were, you know, serious about your offer or whatever...”_ _ _ _

____Ah, so that explained the hesitancy. He assumed Bruce was going to retract his offer. He supposed it made sense, but..._ _ _ _

____“Would you mind bringing me one of your trick arrows with the line?” he asked instead of trying to placate what seemed to be Barton’s near-fear of being told he was messing with him. “It’ll be easier to improve it than to start from scratch.”_ _ _ _

____Barton looked relieved, a bit, and nodded in the direction of his plate. “Yeah. Okay.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll take it by the lab tomorrow. Get some sleep, doc.” He didn’t wait for an answer before taking up his plate and putting it in the sink, disappearing down the hallway. Bruce watched him go, frowning a little, before turning back to his food. He still didn’t like Barton, and he was grateful he didn’t have to see him more often than he already did, but..._ _ _ _

____...well. He thought that, just maybe, the two of them could learn to tolerate each other._ _ _ _

____\----------_ _ _ _

____Bruce saw Barton the next day, for just a few minutes, as the sniper handed off a trick arrow. He apparently had a lot of them, and as loath as Bruce was to actually work with arrows, he saw the necessity of it. Besides, he’d already inadvertently come up with a thousand things that Barton could do with the right sorts of trick arrows, so he probably just needed to suck it up and get over the fact that he was working with an archer._ _ _ _

____A blue-eyed, freckled, blonde archer, who was a massive asshole, and didn’t that just hit him like a punch to the gut?_ _ _ _

____Barton was right, though, his zip lines were pretty much... well, shit. It was nothing to do with the materials, but more in the way that they were arranged. He could see the idea behind it, but he was certain whoever had initially made them had been working from the wrong angle. They were trying to make the arrow fit the zip line, not the other way around._ _ _ _

____As much as he didn’t like Barton, he was also fully aware of the archer’s status as the only fully human member of the team. As such, something like this could be the difference between a safe landing and being splattered on the pavement, and Bruce really didn’t want something like that on his conscience._ _ _ _

____It took building an entirely new casing for the line, but when he was done, he had something that was actually fairly streamlined and a lot less bulky than what Barton had originally been working with. Feeling rather proud of himself, he went to go find Barton and show him the design to get his okay before he made enough to actually be worthwhile._ _ _ _

____The last thing he had expected was to be asked to go out on an assignment with the guy._ _ _ _

____Beyond that, the furthest thing from his mind had been saying yes._ _ _ _

____But, damn him and his desire to feel useful... he said it anyway._ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so apparently the last chapter was just a problem because I simply sat down and wrote this and BOOM. Then again, Bruce is easier to write for than Clint because Bruce is less of a douchebag. I know, a lot of setup for the Jotun ice thing and then it was resolved off-screen... ...or WAS it? Mwahaha.


	6. ...in which Bruce and Clint already own tuxedos for some reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I won a scholarship! Yay! It’s a partial scholarship! Less yay! I have to get a second job! Not yay at all! So I’ll try to keep updating at a normal rate but if they slow back down you’ll all know why.

“Why me?”

Coulson fixed Clint with an unreadable stare across the table, but Clint didn’t budge. Coulson might have been one of the scariest guys in all of S.H.I.E.L.D., but Clint hadn’t gotten where he was in this organization by backing down easily. After a long moment, Coulson asked, “Do you want a flowery spiel to make you feel better about your lot in life, or do you want the truth?”

Clint didn’t dignify that with an actual answer beyond the faint glare over the rims of his sunglasses. Coulson took that for the response it was.

“Because you’re the only one available.” When Clint moved to protest, Coulson held his hand up. “Yes, of course you’re skilled and I know that it’s not exactly a glamorous position. However, we need someone who can get Doctor Banner into the facility and you’re the only one good enough who isn’t out on another assignment.”

“Okay, fine, but why does it have to be him?”

“Look, we have reason to believe that this man,” Coulson slid a picture across the table for Clint to look at, “has some of the Jotun ice.” He had the look of a man who valued his appearance far too much, particularly for his age, and Clint wondered just how many Botox treatments he’d subjected his face to. And there was no way he hadn’t had surgery to make his lips look like that. It was just unnatural. “Doctor Banner knows all of the algorithms for finding whether or not they have it in their systems. If it was a simple matter of him making a program and sending it with you, I’d do that and keep him out of it entirely. But he needs to run it himself, apparently, because he needs to see what he’s actually looking for.”

“What about one of our other scientists?”

“None of them are honorary Avengers.” Clint glared again when he saw that Coulson wanted to smile at the title.

“He isn’t.”

“You’re the only Avenger that thinks he’s not.”

Clint huffed out a breath and went back to staring at the picture. “Fine,” he grumbled. “What exactly do I have to do?”

\----------

The assignment itself was actually nearly mind-numbingly simple, at least on the surface. Jonah Butera was the leader of a pharmaceutical company on the west coast with a history of being involved in many projects that were above board, as well as rumored involvement in many more projects that weren’t. However, no one was ever able to get anything on him, thanks to him being able to simply throw money at problems until they went away, and charges were always mysteriously dropped whenever they were actually brought up against him.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had reason to believe that he had managed to get not just one, but several pieces of the ice, and was holding them. The fact that he had them really wasn’t the problem. It was mostly that they needed to be recovered and taken to Loki before someone else found out that he had them and took matters into their own hands (or before they combined, depending on how they were being kept). Of course, that was provided that the guy even had them, which Clint doubted. Very much.

He still found himself outside of Banner’s lab later that afternoon, knocking for permission to enter. Once it was granted, he came in, moving straight to the table across from the doctor and fixing him with a steady look through his glasses. No point in beating around the bush. “Coulson said he spoke to you.”

“Briefly,” Banner said, setting down his clipboard, and Clint had to grudgingly give the guy points for staying unruffled. He’d been a lot steadier ever since their meeting in the kitchen, and the archer couldn’t help finding that unnerving. He was reminded of when they had very first met, and Clint had been disquieted by how the guy had such an air of forced calm around him. It was easier to see that, now, when Banner wasn’t being so twitchy in his presence. “He said you would fill me in on what the assignment was actually going to be.”

“Yep,” Clint said, dragging a stool over with his ankle and delighting in the fact that Banner seemed completely disgusted with the thought of following his orders. That part would be fun, at least. “The guy’s having a party Saturday. We’ve managed to get an invitation to it. It was Maria, so don’t ask me how. Anyway, invitation’s for you. I’m going as your plus one.”

Banner, who had been half listening and half focused on his clipboard again, looked up sharply at those words. “You’re going as my _what_?” It wasn’t a request for clarification. No, that was definitely a ‘what the fuck did you just say’ sort of voice.

Clint smirked. “Your plus one, of course. I mean, I have to be there. I have to stick with you. It’s not like I can go as your bodyguard, and people don’t take friends or casual acquaintances to these things. It’d be Nat, but she’s running off doing something else, so you get to be stuck with me. What, am I not good enough arm candy for you, doc?”

Banner opened his mouth, shut it again, and repeated the movement a couple of times before reaching up to remove his glasses and rub the bridge of his nose. “I don’t believe this.”

“Believe it. It’s the only thing that’s going to keep us from attracting too much attention. Trust me, I’m not happy about this, either, but I’m damn good at my job and I’m going to do whatever I have to in order to make sure that job gets done _well_. And if that mean I get to be your trophy boyfriend for an evening? I’ll deal. Think you can be professional enough to handle that?”

That seemed to get a reaction out of him. Banner glared at him over his fingers, narrowing his eyes. “I’m always professional.” The words ‘unlike you’ went unsaid but heavily implied.

There was silence for a long few moments, the two of them just staring at each other, before Clint said, “Good.”

“Wouldn’t Tony be better suited for this?”

Clint shook his head. “Tony Stark? Way too big of a name. People have heard of you, Banner, but you’re not so huge that you’ll have heads turning wherever you go. Just enough that people won’t question your presence there, and Butera will assume that he must have invited you. Anyway, we’ll do the typical high-society shit. You know, you’ll introduce yourself and me to people, you’ll make polite science-based small talk chitchat whatever, and I’ll pretend I have no idea what you’re talking about. Once the party’s in full swing, we’ll leave the room together. Since I’ll be your plus one, no one will question that, either, and it’ll take people a long time to start caring about where we’ve gone if they’ve even noticed at all.”

Banner just nodded once, replacing his glasses.

“The party’s taking place in his house, and all the info we have says he keeps backups of the company’s files in his own systems. Updates them every night. I’ll be able to get us through any security measures we encounter, and you take care of the computer. Ideally, we’ll be back in the party before half an hour as passed and be able to get the fuck out of there as soon as it’s polite.”

“And it will be that easy, will it?”

“Nope. Never is. Still, that’s the plan, so if you have a better one? Might be a good idea to go ahead and speak up now, doc.”

Banner didn’t say anything.

Clint stood up. “Well, then, make sure your tux is clean. We leave Friday.”

\----------

Clint was on the Quinjet, messing with the controls and setting the flight destination, when he heard the back open and the less-than-graceful sounds of Banner clambering inside. He glanced over to see him straightening up and staring around, looking slightly in awe of the technology around him. “You ready to go?” he called over his shoulder, startling him.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Clint hit the button to close the back and said, “Stow your stuff and buckle in wherever you want. It’s going to be kind of a long flight.”

He ignored the sounds of Banner’s preparation until he sat in the other seat and buckled in. Clint glanced at him, but didn’t say anything as the scientist pulled out a book and kept it in his lap, presumably for while they were in flight. Preparation didn’t take long, and soon, they were heading out towards southern California with nothing but each other for company.

Not Clint’s idea of a good time.

“How long have we been dating?”

Clint looked at him. “Six months. Still new enough that we’re completely fascinated with each other, but not so new that we’re still making everyone in a mile radius throw up. I asked you out initially, of course.”

“Of course?”

Banner sounded skeptical, but Clint didn’t elaborate. “We started dating pretty casually and then moved on to being exclusive after about a month. I work as a personal trainer at a nearby gym and frequently come by your lab to make sure you’re doing necessary human needs things like eating and sleeping. We usually go out for dinner every Saturday night and you owe me for making me go to this party instead. I still have my own apartment and we haven’t even really discussed moving in together yet, but I stay over a lot and vice versa. I can’t cook, and you generally don’t have time, so we usually either go out to eat or order takeout or something.”

When Clint glanced at Banner, he was staring out the window. “Anything else?” the scientist asked the glass, and Clint looked forward again.

“I don’t know. Anything you want to add that I should know?”

He saw Banner shrug out of the corner of his eye.

“Cool. Then there’s nothing else to worry about.”

Clint focused on flying while Banner took his book and began to read. He had to admit, it wasn’t as weird as it could have been, as long as neither of them were attempting to make conversation. The flight passed in complete silence, and Clint found himself missing Natasha, Tony, and the rest of the Avengers. At least he would have been able to talk to them. Still, Banner was being significantly less annoying while focused on his book. He counted his blessings, even as he landed at a private airfield S.H.I.E.L.D. had arranged for.

The hotel they would be staying in for the next two nights was extremely nice. It was unsurprising, really; since Tony hadn’t been able to come along, he’d insisted on making the arrangements, and it was no surprise that Tony had picked only the best. Clint was initially annoyed, but when he saw the rooms themselves, he was relieved because they were just that: rooms. There was an actual living area, two separate bedrooms on opposite sides of the main room, and private baths connected to both bedrooms. There was even a kitchen, not that they would be making much use of that.

Clint whistled lowly and dumped his bag on the couch. He wasn’t used to such comfortable conditions on missions. Of course, he wasn’t used to being comfortable at all on missions. It was just part of the job. Still, if this was par for the course for Tony Stark, he was going to have to insist on teaming up with the guy more often. Even if it was just like this.

They didn’t speak much that evening, either, beyond extremely perfunctory discussion about what they wanted to do for dinner and what they both needed to do to prepare for the party the following night. They ended up ordering room service and ate in silence.

“Well...” Banner cleared his throat after he had thrown away his trash, rubbing his palms together. He stared at Clint for a long moment before looking down and away, a little, self-depreciating smile forming on his features. “...good night.”

Clint nodded and Banner turned, disappearing into the room he’d claimed as his own. Frowning, Clint threw his own trash away and stood. He could do this. He could get through this stupid thing. He’d gotten through far worse missions in his day.

This was nothing.

\----------

The next day was the furthest thing from the comfortable, silent truce they had established over the past few weeks.

Banner was probably just nervous about what he was expected to do that night, but he was on edge, and him being on edge made Clint on edge, and that meant they had snapped at each other four times before lunch while they were making their respective preparations. With anyone else, Clint could have just brushed it off, but this was _Banner_ and Banner didn’t get that privilege because he hadn’t earned it. Clint didn’t know what the guy’s problem was, but the biggest problem came in the middle of the afternoon.

He didn’t even remember how it had started, but it was a fight. Not a fist fight, but still, a real, honest-to-god fight that had the two of them yelling at each other. Well, Clint was yelling. But what was really making him angry was...

“How the fuck are you always so calm?!” he snapped, throwing a book down on the table where Banner was working. “What, am I not worth your time or something? Get angry! For fuck’s sake!”

“I _am_ angry,” Banner said, in his perfectly reasonable tones. “You are making me very angry. I suggest backing away, Barton. I’m not in the mood to deal with this.”

“Or what?” Clint bit back, aware of how childish he was sounding but beyond caring. “What are you going to do to me? _Talk_ at me?”

“Stop it, Barton.”

“I can’t believe I got stuck on this mission with you,” Clint groaned, running his hands back through his hair. “Who gives a shit if you’re good with computers? This is infiltration, espionage, and I need someone who won’t fuck everything up--”

There was a loud, sharp crack, cutting through the air and stopping Clint dead mid-sentence. He stared at the pencil that had been in Banner’s fist and was now half-buried in the table, sticking eraser-up like the world’s weirdest arrow. The silence that followed was deafening, both of them staring at the pencil as though they weren’t sure how it had gotten there. Banner’s hand, when he removed it from the pencil, was shaking.

Clint found his voice first, but he didn’t know what to say. “I--”

“Shut up, Barton.”

His jaw clicked as he shut his mouth, but Banner was still staring at the pencil. Clint had two realizations: first, that it could well have been his chest instead of the table; and second, that he probably would have been too surprised to defend against it. The sudden thought that Banner could actually, potentially, _kill_ him was a sobering one. He flexed his hand a few times before turning on his heel, leaving the room.

He sat down on the edge of his bed and put his head in his hands, closing his eyes. He heard the sound of wood breaking and figured that Banner was attempting to remove the pencil from the table with minimal success. How he’d actually managed what he’d done was anyone’s guess, but Clint really didn’t want to head out and talk to him at the moment. He rubbed his hands together before putting his head back in his hands, groaning quietly.

All of his bitching aside, this really was a bad idea. He had complete faith in his espionage abilities, and grudging faith in Banner’s ability to do whatever the fuck he was going to do with that computer, but it was his new partner’s super spy talent that he felt was going to be lacking. It was imperative that the two of them be as convincing as possible for this to work correctly.

He didn’t know if he could do it.

Avoiding the main room for a while would be a good idea. Clint considered, briefly, the possibility of going with an apology when they met up again, but... no. It would be better to pretend that it hadn’t happened at all. Whatever it was had clearly spooked Banner, and Clint had no doubt that he didn’t need to be reminded of it again once he’d calmed down.

Stripping his clothes off, Clint stepped into his shower and began the tedious work of making himself look presentable in the world of socialites. After scrubbing himself down completely, he toweled off thoroughly and shaved. His hair looked perfectly acceptable after the application of a liberal amount of gel, and the tuxedo did a brilliant job of disguising his scars. The purple bow tie and vest added the appropriate ‘fuck the man but in a polite kind of way’ flare to the stark black and white of his attire, and a couple of rings that looked purely decorative but would release a paralyzing serum if hit hard enough adorned both hands. If he really needed to resort to using his fists, he didn’t want the fights to last long enough to ruin the suit.

Socks and shoes on, Clint moved out to the main room to wait. A hired car would pick them up, take them to the destination, and be waiting for Clint’s signal to come pick them up. Hopefully, they’d be in and out before anything got nasty. Of course, things never worked the way Clint wanted them to. He thought he’d prepared for every possible situation, though, and that was why he was actually genuinely surprised when Banner stepped out of his own room.

As Clint turned to look at him, he realized that the thought of Banner actually cleaning up nicely had never crossed his mind. Ever. Of course, in his defense, every time he’d seen the guy he’d been hunched in on himself, wearing rumpled khakis and too-large button ups and looking like he hadn’t shaved in nearly a week. Still, Clint had developed a world view that meant that was just the guy’s natural state of being, but...

Damn. With his glasses put away, his hair tamed, the lines of his suit straight, his face shaved... the guy looked _good_. Like, really good. Way too good, if he had to be honest. Tony’d probably picked the tux out and had it fitted. That sounded like a Tony kind of thing. But damn. It looked like Banner was actually hiding a body worth discovering under all of those layers, and--

And he was staring. He realized that when he met Banner’s eyes again and received a very clear ‘what the fuck are you looking at’ look. Clearing his throat would be way too obvious, so Clint just said, “Car’s probably here. You ready?”

“As ready as I can be,” Banner--no, he would have to get used to calling him Bruce while they were at the party--said with a nod as he followed Clint out of the room. The two of them made their way down the elevator and through the lobby, and Clint was gratified to find that the car was in fact already there. Bruce got in first, Clint following him closely, and he shut the door as he settled into the plush seats in the back.

Yeah. This mission definitely had better digs than his usual assignments.

“So,” Bruce said, just fractionally too loudly as though he was trying to cover up his own nervousness. “Let’s go over the plan one more time.”

Clint nodded, seizing hold of the distraction almost eagerly, as he began to work through the finer details once more. It gave him something to think about besides the fine figure the man next to him was cutting in that tux. Besides, that night, he couldn’t afford distractions of the more carnal nature... particularly not from Bruce Goddamn Banner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at that, they’re actually having to interact. Poor dears. We’re going to get into the heavier stuff in the next chapter or two, and by that I mean this story might go up to M or E. As I said, though, I’ll try to confine most of that stuff to its own chapter with no plot development so people can skip them if they want to (if I end up actually writing it at all because I don’t know how to porn). But! Just because they might be overcoming a few issues in the next chapter or two doesn’t mean we’re anywhere close to the end. Oh, no. So much more drama to be had. So much.


	7. ...in which Clint proves that, no, really, he can be charming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m running out of pre-note stuff to say. But I always have them! This is a conundrum! Upped the rating to M, but nothing _too_ graphic in this chapter because I seriously do not know how to porn.

This was _not_ going to be easy. Not in the slightest.

Seeing Barton (Clint this evening, his brain reminded him, he wouldn’t call his boyfriend by his last name) in his tuxedo had given Bruce a rather uncomfortable realization. That realization, specifically, was that Bruce had been fostering the oddest crush on the guy ever since he’d seen his eyes for the first time, which was completely ridiculous considering the fact that he still absolutely hated him. Was it possible to want to sleep with someone while wanting to punch their teeth in every single time you saw them?

Yes. Apparently, it was. Besides, it had been a really, _really_ long time since he had last gotten laid. Living in the shadow of Tony Stark had its drawbacks.

The argument earlier had reminded him of exactly why this was a bad idea. Not that they would fight, of course. He’d been surprised when they’d managed to get through the Quinjet ride relatively politely. No, it was that Clint had a way of pushing Bruce’s buttons, and the last thing he needed was the archer making him well and truly angry.

He wondered, not for the first time, what the evening would be like. They couldn’t speak with any real emotion beyond irritation or rage, apparently. Would people think they were in the midst of a fight? That’d be awkward. It would, at least, keep people away from them. But it might draw too much attention.

Bruce took out the invitation and slid out of the car once they arrived at the house, Clint following him closely. Well, he called it a house, but it was most certainly a mansion. Bruce was almost positive that if he had to stay in this place, he’d get lost every time he went in search of either a bathroom or the kitchen. He presented the invitation to the woman at the door who checked it over before offering him a bright smile, as though he had actually been expected. “Welcome, Doctor Banner,” she said with politely reserved cheer, nodding to Clint as well and effectively ushering the two of them inside.

Well. That part had been easy, at least.

All right. He could remember this part. The first thing to do was mingle. He honestly didn’t really know how to do that, as Tony was usually the one who started every single conversation at any high society party he had to attend. Still, if Tony could do it, it couldn’t be that hard, could it?

Of course it could. Tony was an extravert. Bruce suspected he might be as well, with enough alcohol in his system, but he’d never actually attempted it and remained a firm introvert. Still, he soon found that he didn’t have any reason to worry. Apparently he really was well known enough to be recognized, and was approached shortly. The man introduced himself, Lucas something, but Bruce had never heard of him before (of course, Tony was the one who remembered the names, and Bruce was just flat terrible with them unless he’d been told six or seven times).

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said with a polite smile, shaking hands. “Bruce Banner. And this is--”

“Clint Barton,” the agent at his side said, extending his own hand as well. It really wasn’t Clint’s words that made Bruce draw up short, but the fact that he suddenly had a proprietary hand on the small of his back. Like it belonged there. “Don’t mind me,” Clint continued, his lips curved into what was easily the most charming smile Bruce had ever seen. “I’m just here for the food. Bruce here is the brilliant one.” And suddenly Bruce found himself the target of that charming smile.

Feeling totally disarmed suddenly, he was glad for the fact that Lucas Something seemed to have the whole of his attention focused on Clint. The man laughed. “I’m quite a fan of Doctor Banner’s work, actually.”

“So am I,” Clint said, before dropping his voice conspiratorially. “Not that I understand it. I just like hearing him talk.”

Bruce actually laughed at that one, a real laugh, and waved his hand as Lucas Something laughed as well. “Don’t sell yourself short like that.”

He found himself suddenly deep in conversation about previous projects and essays he barely remembered writing, Clint providing the perfect backup of appreciative laughter and enough side comments to make it look as though these were conversations he’d listened to a thousand times before. After Lucas came an older man and his wife, followed by two twin sisters, followed by a small team from somewhere in the Midwest. If Bruce had taken the time to think about it, he would have been startled at the ease with which he fell into a rapport with Clint.

He would mention something that he knew he’d mentioned to Tony before, and Clint would groan theatrically, grinning paradoxically. Bruce would elbow him lightly and they would both start laughing, and Clint got to making up the most ludicrous stories that Bruce just found himself going along with. He also told stories that were true; Bruce’s association with Tony Stark was well known, and he cracked up the Midwest team with the tale of Bruce’s ruining Tony’s Lucky Charms. It had been a simple affair when Bruce had done it, but told by Clint, it was some sort of epic adventure.

It was almost as if they had known each other for years. Moreover, it was as if they had been _friends_ for years. And that... that was simply ridiculous. It wasn’t helping that Clint’s close proximity to Bruce was starting to make him more than just a little bit fidgety in a way he was completely unused to.

They had been at it for nearly two hours when Clint leaned down close enough to mutter to Bruce. “Come on,” he said, his voice barely more than a puff of breath across the shell of his ear, lips brushing his skin just light enough to make Bruce shudder. He could feel the smile, Clint was so close, and he could only imagine what any onlooker would think he was saying. “It’s probably been long enough. Let’s go.”

The words really didn’t matter at that point. With that low tone of voice, those lips brushing his ear, Clint could have said he was going to carve both of Bruce’s legs off with a butter knife and Bruce would have agreed. He made a deep hum of acquiescence, low in his chest, and it was only because of their proximity to each other that Bruce felt more than heard Clint’s breathing stutter, just slightly.

Strong, calloused fingers wound around his wrist and tugged him gently from the room. Bruce had noticed, throughout the evening, that they weren’t the first people to have this idea (though he was positive other people had it for completely different reasons). Clint stuck close to his side as they left, and while he didn’t doubt they’d attracted some attention with their exit, Bruce also thought they’d been convincing enough these past hours to save them from any suspicion for the time being.

Presumably to avoid suspicion further, Clint dragged him into a room off the closest corridor, shutting and locking the door behind them. It was a rather opulent sitting room, with a daybed large enough that four people could have comfortably napped on it. Bruce was expecting an immediate shift from Totally-His-Boyfriend Clint to Agent Barton, but Clint just leaned back against the door for a moment, eyes closed.

“...right,” he finally said, clearing his throat roughly, and he opened his eyes to stare directly at the wall across from him. “I need to...” He trailed off, glanced down, seemed to realize he was still holding Bruce’s wrist, and released him as though he had been burned. He muttered something that might have been an apology, but Bruce wasn’t listening. He rubbed at his wrist, wondering why he felt so cold all of a sudden, before shaking the feeling off.

Clint--Agent Barton--seemed to have recovered himself enough to pull a thin tablet no larger than a smart phone out of the inside of his jacket. He began tapping at the screen, only moving closer to Bruce once he had found what he was looking for. He presented the other with blueprints of the house that he had presumably acquired from S.H.I.E.L.D. As Bruce looked them over, Barton leaned in close behind his back, and the scientist had to force himself to concentrate on the archer’s words and not the proximity of their bodies.

“This is where we’re headed,” Barton muttered under his breath as he tapped at a particular room. “It’s not going to be easy. Stick close behind me, okay? When I tell you to duck behind something, just do it. I’ll let you know when to come back out.” Bruce knew it was out of concern for the mission, not him. Still, the words made him feel oddly warm and fuzzy in a way they very distinctly should not have.

He was self-aware enough to know that any feelings he might or might not have been harboring for Agent Barton were because he knew how the man could be around other people, and he held no illusions that he might ever truly be on the receiving end of the warm smiles he’d seen that evening, but that knowledge didn’t make this entire situation any easier to bear.

Sticking close to Barton’s back was easier than he thought it would be. Once they’d snuck out of the room, they immediately headed for the stairs. They managed to avoid the second and third floors entirely, emerging out into the fourth.

“...idiot,” Barton muttered under his breath, and Bruce glanced into the hallway to see what he meant. There was no one up there, but he didn’t dare comment, and neither did Barton. He just gestured for him to follow, the two making their way silently across the thickly padded carpet to the door marked on the blueprint. The scanners were a different story entirely, but Barton produced three cards that made short work of that security device.

The room beyond was simply an office. Barton held him back, pulling what looked like a pen out of his pocket. He uncapped it and threw it, the tip striking the security camera with a sharp zapping noise. He followed Bruce in after, muttering, “This is too easy. There is no way he’s this stupid. It’s like he wants someone to come in and take his stuff.”

A quick check of the computer was all it took before he declared it safe for Bruce to access. As he sat and began work at the keyboard, Barton paced the room, looking anxious. “What do you think is going to happen?” Bruce asked, most of his concentration on the computer.

“I think, as soon as we’re done here, we might have to fight our way out. He’s just inviting trouble.” Barton kept pacing, moving between the windows to peer out of the curtains and the door to listen for footsteps. Bruce kept up his steady work on the computer, running everything he knew of to get through the files. Everything was password protected, but thanks to a little device from Tony, it wasn’t difficult to get through that security, either.

“They do,” Bruce finally said. “In... Nevada, they’re holding... Christ. Twenty-four of them.”

Barton cursed under his breath. “Details?”

“Downloading it,” Bruce muttered before quickly shutting things down. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Unfortunately for both of them, Barton’s prediction came true. The moment they stepped out of the room, they found themselves faced with two men holding guns. “God dammit,” Barton bit out before lunging straight at them. Obviously, that was not the response they had been expecting, and Barton managed to disarm both of them before they got off a shot. One solid punch to the first guard’s jaw dropped him, and he turned into a twitching mass on the floor. The second guard seemed a bit more prepared, leading to a grappling session.

Of course, the guard was in body armor and Barton was in nothing but his tuxedo. Bruce knew he’d been told to stay back, but the thought of Barton being overpowered and leaving him driven into a corner... unacceptable. Feeling regrettably like a woman in some action flick, Bruce lifted up a heavy vase and slammed it into the back of the guard’s head. He heard the ceramic crack somewhere in the base, and it broke into three pieces when it hit the ground.

Barton, flat on his back, took the opportunity to raise his foot and slam his heel into the guy’s jaw, knocking him fully back. Bruce only barely managed to step out of the way and avoid being crushed under his (now unconscious) weight. The two of them stared at him before Barton turned his eyes up to Bruce. “...thanks,” he said, sounding somewhere between grateful and shocked.

Bruce didn’t trust his voice, only nodded. Barton scrambled to his feet, and the two of them took off down the hallway at a run.

Those two were not the last guards they encountered on their way out. A particularly nasty fight in the stairs ended with all three of them falling down to the landing, Barton barely managing to hit the guy with his ring again to paralyze him. The sound doubtless had attracted people, and Bruce found himself dragged to his feet by a strong hand wrapped around his own. Bruce wasn’t, and never had been, much of a fighter. He could feel the familiar itch under his skin, the rumbling of the Other Guy’s agitation, and stayed away from the combat as much as he was able.

On the second floor, Barton ripped a panel open and slammed his fist into a button. Immediately, the wail of the fire alarm pierced the air and water immediately exploded from the spigots on the ceiling. “Come on,” he said, grabbing Bruce’s hand again and yanking him towards the stairs. The water was pouring heavily enough that they looked less like they’d been fighting and more like they’d just been soaked. They got onto the first floor just in time to join the other people who had drifted into private rooms, women holding clutches over their heads and men pulling off their jackets to shield themselves and their dates.

They joined the flood of people escaping onto the front lawn and Barton pulled out his phone, sending the pre-written text to have the driver return. He looked at Bruce when he felt him fidgeting, raising an eyebrow. “Relax,” he muttered under his breath. “They’ll have no idea.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. I told you, I’m good at what I do.”

Bruce nodded, his heart still pounding so hard that he was positive the people around him could hear it over the screeching alarm. Beside him, Barton was as calm as he’d seen him, and Bruce felt the weight of a muscular arm settle on his shoulders and pull him closer.

Back to Clint the Boyfriend, then, he supposed. Still, Bruce didn’t resist the pull. He stood there until he was pulled to the car, ushered into the back. He was shaking with adrenaline, unable to concentrate on the drive and only aware that they’d arrived back at the hotel when Barton tugged on his sleeve to pull him out. They made their way back up to the suite quickly, Barton having to steady Bruce on his feet more than once, and the scientist collapsed on the couch the moment they were back inside.

Barton locked the door and did a quick check around as Bruce stared at his hands, still shaking. “That... was the most...” He didn’t finish, swallowing so hard his throat clicked audibly.

“You’re still wet.” Barton moved over, stripping off his tuxedo coat, and stood near Bruce. When the scientist didn’t look up, the agent moved closer, kneeling in front of him. “You need to get out of that suit or you’re going to get sick.” Bruce glanced up and found himself staring into those incredibly blue eyes again. “Look, not that I care, but if you get sick when I was supposed to be watching you and I get blamed--”

Bruce didn’t know what made him do it, but he reached out and fisted the material of that ridiculous purple vest, hauling Barton closer. By all rights, the archer should have been able to twist away without a problem, but all he managed was an extremely inarticulate noise of surprise that just grew more muffled when Bruce crushed their lips together. It was rough, hard, and full of the thrill of simply having survived what was doubtless the most dangerous thing Bruce had done in his life. Barton tried to pull back, but Bruce was insistent, and the agent’s resolve quickly crumbled beneath the assault of the scientist’s lips, teeth, and tongue.

When Bruce yanked the vest harder and leaned backwards, Barton went without complaint. Bruce lay back on the couch, forcing Barton to brace one knee on the cushion between his thighs, his other foot braced awkwardly on the floor. Hands pressed into the sofa either side of his head, allowing him to keep most of his weight off the smaller male as he began returning the kiss in earnest.

Bruce felt Barton sinking to lie against his chest before he turned his head sharply, breaking the kiss. As though suddenly realizing what he was doing, Bruce opened his mouth--probably to apologize--but all that came out was a strangled sound as Barton scraped his teeth across the skin just below Bruce’s ear before moving to tongue his still-hammering pulse point. “Fuck,” he managed, screwing his eyes shut as he tilted his head back and arched upwards into Barton’s chest.

“Maybe.” The word was mumbled into Bruce’s throat, and he felt his breath catch as Barton ground their hips together. He managed a strangled groan as he thrust upwards in return, and was rewarded with a sharp gasp from Barton. A huff of laughter brushed across his Adam’s apple before Barton said, “You’re still wet.” It was Bruce’s only warning before Barton grabbed his shoulders and twisted their bodies off the couch.

Barton let out a soft grunt as he landed flat on his back on the floor, Bruce sprawled across his chest. Pushing at him a little, Barton forced him to sit up before reaching up and stripping him of his tuxedo coat rather efficiently. He threw it off somewhere else before yanking him back down, their mouths slotting together in another near-violent press.

Bruce wasn’t sure how they made it to a bedroom, and was equally unsure of whose bedroom it was as they began ripping at each other’s clothing. He heard the distinctive sound of a button pinging off the lamp but completely ignored it. He managed to divest Barton of everything from the waist up, but when his eyes moved upwards, he saw something staring at him: a carved coin, made of jade, hanging from a leather thong. A glance further up told him, instinctively, that asking would not end well for him. Asking was also exactly what Barton was expecting him to do.

So he reached up and pressed his hands into the archer’s shoulders, shoving him hard enough that he bounced once on the expensive hotel mattress before settling. Bruce threw his own shirt before covering Barton’s body with his own, pressing him into the bed. He knew Barton could throw him off easily enough, but he didn’t. He just arched up into him, encouraging him with nips and scratches down his back. The rest of their clothes followed in a struggle, and when Bruce finally wrapped his hand around both of them and began stroking in a near-frenzy, he found himself almost as intoxicated by the sight of Barton arching and panting beneath him, the weight of him in his palm, the feel of his hands gripping his shoulders, hips, biceps, anywhere he could reach, as he was with his own pleasure.

Barton’s release sent Bruce over the edge in a rush of white noise in his ears and colors behind his eyelids, and when he collapsed on the archer’s chest, he was not pushed away until long after he was unconscious.

\----------

Bruce woke with the vague, distant feeling that he had done something the previous night that he really shouldn’t have. He could hear the distant sounds of a shower running and what sounded like music, but it took him several minutes to gather enough presence of mind to put any of these things together.

He rolled over on his back and winced at the sudden, disgusting feeling on his chest and stomach. He pressed his palm against the center of his chest and slowly moved it down, grimacing as everything came back into him in a rush.

Right. That had definitely been a bad idea.

A glance around proved that he was in Barton’s hotel room, and the bathroom door was standing open. Steam was escaping in billows and, though he couldn’t really see inside, he could hear the tinny sounds of a song he didn’t recognize.

_“What would you do? What would you do, do you know? Was it all a joke? Never had control. I’m not better on my own.”_

Bruce sat up and scrubbed his hand through his hair, wincing again. Shit, he’d fallen asleep with his contacts in. Another thing to add to the list of ‘bad decisions of last night’.

_“I’m not over. I’m not over you just yet. I cannot hide it. You’re not that easy to forget. I’m not over.”_

There were some of his clothes in the room. Pants, at least, and boxers. He needed those. And he needed to go take a shower because falling asleep the way he had the previous night had been completely inadvisable. But that also meant he needed to get up, and even from one bedroom to another, a walk of shame was a walk of shame. Dammit.

_“What a waste of time, the thought crossed my mind. Can’t explain this thing, or what I mean. I’m trying to let go.”_

The shower cut off with the high, metallic squeak of pipes before the sound cut off. Moments later, Barton entered the room, nothing but a towel slung around his waist. He looked momentarily surprised to see Bruce awake, but then just remained in the doorway, one eyebrow raised.

Bruce knew if he spoke, he’d just end up saying ‘um’ again, so he said nothing.

In the end, it was Barton that broke the silence. “Breakfast?” he suggested, running his hand back through his hair. When it was wet, it looked almost brown. He was still wearing the necklace Bruce had seen the previous night. Bruce diligently ignored it, like he got the feeling he was supposed to. It was harder to ignore the bite mark on his shoulder. Christ, had Bruce done that?

“Uh, yeah.” When Barton nodded and moved towards the door, presumably to order room service, he said, “Barton, are we going to...” He trailed off under the scrutiny of the agent’s gaze, as closed off as ever. His back was covered in scratch marks, which also looked entirely distracting.

“Talk?” Barton prompted, his eyebrow rising again.

Bruce nodded.

“Do you _want_ to talk about it?” Barton asked, his tone suggesting he already knew the answer.

“...no. Not really.”

“Then no.”

“So was it just...” He waved one hand lightly. “...what was it?”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t going to happen again,” Barton said lightly. “I just said we weren’t going to talk about it.” With that, he was gone, and Bruce ran his hand through his hair. Fuck, he was officially sleeping with a guy that hated him, a guy that he hated, wasn’t he? This was the last situation he’d expected to find himself in when he’d agreed to help out the Avengers.

Getting up and collecting what of his clothes he could find, he moved quickly to his own bedroom and deposited things on the bed before moving into the bathroom. He removed his contacts, cringing at the sandy feeling, before taking in his own appearance in the mirror. At least two bites marks on his neck, scratches on his own back, fingerprint bruises in his biceps and hips...

...yeah, no, he wouldn’t be mentioning this to Tony any time soon.

Bruce turned on the shower on as hot as possible, determined to fix at least one of the bad decisions he’d made the previous night.

\----------

The flight back to New York was very, very awkward. Of course, it wasn’t like things hadn’t ever been awkward before, and Bruce supposed that sleeping with a guy would break any tentative ‘live and let live’ truce you had with him. Besides, it wasn’t like he had expected things to change with Barton after the previous night. Even if they did it again, he didn’t think things would change.

As much as he hated being a convenience for someone else, he had to admit that the arrangement was more than convenient for him, as well. Emotions getting involved had been the very reason that he hadn’t been able to make anything work with anyone else. He’d tried the emotional attachment thing, and where had it gotten him? Sure, he’d been fourteen. But everything leading up to Fletch had been a disaster, and he had poured so much of himself into the little blond archer... Was it really his fault that he felt as though he’d left a piece of his heart with him, wherever he was now?

But Barton was... different. He didn’t have to worry about emotional attachment beyond the anger. If nothing else, it was probably a healthier way to channel it than violence, though violence had played a part if the marks on their bodies were anything to go by.

He pretended to read his book the entire flight back, but he couldn’t really concentrate. He was more than happy to exit the Quinjet when they landed, he and Barton hardly glancing at each other as they went to make their report. The debriefing was as long as Tony had complained about, but Bruce turned over the evidence and listened to Coulson’s talk about dispatching another retrieval team before the ice Butera had became a real problem. He left quickly, returning to Stark Tower.

“Hey,” Tony greeted, clapping him on the shoulder as they passed in the hallway. “Jarvis told me you were back. How was the trip?”

Bruce shrugged. “We got what we needed, and no one knew it was us, so I guess it went as well as it could have.”

“You and Clint manage to get along?”

Bruce smiled blandly. “Something like that.”

“Good. We’re going to make you two be friends yet. Just you wait,” Tony called over his shoulder as he continued towards whatever destination he’d had in mind.

An argument would be pointless, and he really didn’t want Tony pressing the matter, so Bruce just headed for his rooms as he listened to his brain tick off all the reasons that this was a very, very bad idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I hope that wasn’t too awkward for you guys. I enjoy slow build. They’re even sleeping together and still hate each other! More revelations to come in the future, but seriously, I don’t even know how this story is going to end.


	8. ...in which Steve really does know what's going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I know the direction that this story is starting to go. I’m really bad at starting up plot threads and leaving them hanging most of the time, but not this time, man! I’m a professional and stuff!

Slowly but surely, things started changing.

Not on the surface, of course. No, on the surface, Clint couldn’t have been further removed from Banner. Maybe too far, considering that Natasha actually commented on it (as much as she was wont to do, anyway).

It was three days after he returned that she cornered him after a meeting. Her fingers dug into his bicep and she lifted slightly, dragging him out of the way in the least obtrusive way possible. If she’d been his mother, she probably would have grabbed him by the ear. As it was, the other Avengers didn’t even look twice as he was pulled into the elevator.

“What?” he asked, frowning at her, but she just tightened her grip and shook her head. He cleared his throat and looked away, waiting until the elevator announced arrival on his floor. She finally let go of him once they were in his main room. Tony had obviously tried his best when decorating the place, and though he didn’t want to admit it, Clint actually liked the pale purple wallpaper. Still, the place was Spartan, and she moved over to sit on the couch and prop herself up against the arm.

She stared at him expectantly until he acquiesced, moved to sit against the other side, and allowed her to tangle their legs together. “What?” he asked again, more calmly this time.

“You’ve been off for the past few days,” she said. “What happened when you and Bruce went on your mission?”

“Nothing,” Clint said, apparently too quickly if the frown Natasha sent him was anything to go by. He sighed and held one hand up. “Nothing happened,” he said, calming his voice once more. “I mean, seriously. We barely even fought, okay? I know you were expecting him to come home with breaks and bruises, but it--”

“You think I didn’t notice _your_ bruises, Clint?”

The archer’s mouth shut with an audible click. Shit. He almost asked how she’d noticed, but she was Natasha. He had been stupid to think that she wouldn’t.

She leveled him with a glare before folding her arms and shrugging in a manner that would appear nonchalant to anyone else, but communicated quite clearly to Clint that she was pissed off. “I mean, far be it from me to tell you how to live your life. You’re an adult. But seriously, Clint, what the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t,” Clint muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, so far past the point of denying it that he didn’t even try. It would have been pointless. Natasha just... she knew things about him. She always had. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t felt guilty, not talking to her about it; they’d shared everything with each other since they had first grown close. “Look, it’s not like I suddenly just... I still hate the guy, okay? It... it was something that happened.”

“Is it going to keep happening?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, Clint, it does,” Natasha snapped. “Your sleeping with Bruce could be dangerous, both for you and for him. He could end up a target because of you, and in case you haven’t noticed, he’s not in a prime position to defend himself. Never mind the fact that if you two end up having some kind of falling out, you’re going to manage to make everything even more awkward than it already was. I know you, Clint, and when you have a problem with someone you can’t even be civil to them. I can’t imagine what would happen if your relationship deteriorated further.”

Clint sighed and leaned his head back. She was right--unfortunately--but even so...

“I’ll be careful,” he said.

“Clint, you’re never careful.”

“Look, just let me figure this out, okay?” he asked, raising his head. “I don’t know what I’m doing, no, you’re right about that. But like I said, it just happened. There’s no guaranteeing that it’ll happen again. Besides, we don’t even like each other. That hasn’t changed.”

“Hasn’t it?”

“Of course it hasn’t.”

She didn’t look convinced, but eventually just shrugged it off, eyes closing. “Right, whatever. Like I said, I’m not in charge of your life. But seriously, you need to be careful. You know how dangerous relationships can be in our line of work. I know how you feel about him, but I also know you’d never forgive yourself if something happened to him because of you.”

“...yeah.”

He changed the topic after that, and she permitted it, but it didn’t stop him from thinking. Things were changing. But not on the surface. Not even that much beneath the surface. Were they?

\- - -

But things were definitely changing.

“Shit,” Banner muttered as he tilted his head back, skull thudding against the wall of the closet.

“Shh,” Clint hissed against his throat, pressing further against him and digging the tips of his fingers into his hips. He heard Banner grunt above him as he dragged his tongue through the dip of his collar bone and felt the scientist’s hands digging into his upper arms as he simultaneously pulled him forward and pushed him down. The guy didn’t know what he wanted.

They both froze as footsteps passed by them, but for all that S.H.I.E.L.D. was on top of things everywhere else, it was surprisingly easy to get away with a plethora of sins right under their noses. Someone was bound to notice that Banner wasn’t in his lab as per usual, but Clint was definitely a good enough escort and he doubted it would actually reach the point that anyone would check on him. If they did, they’d probably assume he’d gone home.

“Barton...” Banner’s words were little more than a whisper of air against the shell of his ear. Clint shivered. “Get off.” It was the least convincing protest the archer had ever heard. “If someone catches us, we’ll--”

“Then shut the fuck up so we don’t get caught,” Clint murmured right against the flesh below Banner’s ear, nipping the lobe just so to the other male sigh in a way that really shouldn’t have been half as attractive as it was. With a surprising amount of strength, Banner pushed down on Clint’s shoulders, driving him down to his knees. Clint grunted in surprise before smirking and biting down on Banner’s belt, tugging at it with his teeth. “Bossy,” he mumbled through the leather.

Banner didn’t answer, just pushed his hand through Clint’s hair slowly. It was getting long enough that he’d need a haircut soon. Deft fingers worked the belt open, the button and fly of the scientist’s monumentally unflattering khakis following in short order. Clint worked Banner free from said khakis, licked his lips once, and took him fully down his throat in a single swallow. Banner’s hands found purchase in Clint’s longer-than-usual hair, muffled sounds above the archer letting him know the other was biting his lip to keep from shouting.

Five minutes later, as Clint was pressed face-first against the wall, sucking on three of Banner’s fingers to quiet any sounds as another three digits worked him open, he had a brief flash of wondering if Natasha was right and he really was starting to get in over his head. Thirty seconds after that, it hardly mattered.

When he walked Banner back to his lab, the two of them barely looked at each other. Banner picked up his things, and they moved to the front door. They exchanged their curt, cordial goodbyes, and Clint turned on his heel. As he walked down the hallway, he felt Banner’s gaze burning into the back of his skull the entire way.

\- - -

The retrieval had gone well. Apparently, anyway. Clint hadn’t been allowed to participate, and didn’t that just piss him off?

It had been for good reason, at least. He’d been at the party, and if anything went south and he was captured, him being recognized would spell trouble for Banner. Still, it didn’t change the fact that he’d been instrumental in getting the information and he hadn’t even been allowed to go make use of it. It was a small consolation that none of the Avengers had gone, at least, but all Clint had been able to do was wait anxiously to hear the results. Once they were gotten, all he did was sulk about it.

He wandered into the kitchen where he was rather amused to note that the Lucky Charms had been sorted again, and the plastic jugs now bore the words ‘Bruce if you wanted to touch my Lucky Charms you just had to ask’ written in thick black Sharpie. Unsurprisingly, no one had touched them again. Clint smirked at it before he moved to the refrigerator, opened it, stared inside, closed it, moved to the pantry, opened it, stared inside, closed it, and moved back to the refrigerator.

He was on his fifth iteration of this when he heard someone clear their throat behind him. He glanced back, one eyebrow raised.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked, looking between the pantry and the refrigerator.

“Waiting for the food fairy to visit,” Clint said, keeping his face perfectly straight.

“What?”

“Nothing,” the archer smirked, shutting the pantry again. “I’m hungry, but nothing sounds appealing. Nothing here, anyway.” He paused before looking back at the blonde behind him. “Hey, Fearless Leader.”

“Fearless...?”

“Rocky and Bullwinkle, man. ...You know what? Never mind. Story for another time. You think you could manage to get out of the tower for a while without being swarmed by your legions of admiring fans?”

Thirty minutes later, they were out of the tower and had managed to find a decent hotdog stand not too far away. The guy had looked surprised when Steve had--with a perfectly straight face--ordered seven of them, and Clint had to struggle not to laugh when he ordered his own two. They’d purchased water bottles and found a park nearby, sitting on a bench to eat and watch other people as they passed by. “You know, it’s good to see that some things haven’t changed that much,” Steve said after a few minutes.

“Hm?”

Steve nodded at a couple a short distance away, walking hand in hand and laughing. “Like that. Everything has changed so much, but people still find ways to connect. It just... I guess it’s just different now. When I first woke up, I thought the world had grown so impersonal.”

Clint chewed thoughtfully before he picked up his water bottle, uncapping it. “Yeah. I can see where you get that. I mean, we’re really not that distant with each other. We just have new ways of connecting.”

Steve nodded. Silence reigned between them for another few minutes before Clint sighed, chewing on his bottom lip. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

Clint smiled, his eyes falling halfway shut. “It’s... I don’t know how I want to word it, but... I guess you could say I have a problem. It’s just... there’s this--” He cut himself off sharply, remembering Steve’s 40’s sensibilities, and continued. “...person. I’m kind of developing a... complicated...” He sighed, tipping his head back. “This is hard.”

Steve laughed. “A complicated relationship?” he suggested.

“I wouldn’t call it a relationship. It’s just a complicated something.”

“Mm...” Steve looked up at the sky as well. “What did you want to ask?”

“You know what? I don’t have the slightest idea. I guess it’s just... this complicated something could be pretty dangerous for both of us, because of my job. You know,” he added, glancing at Steve. The former soldier nodded. From everything that Clint had heard about the guy’s life, he supposed it was true. “It’s... I know it’s not a good idea, but I don’t...”

When he didn’t continue, Steve crumpled up the waxy paper from his final hotdog and tossed it into the nearby trash. “You know it’s a bad idea and you don’t want to stop,” he said. “I get it. I’ve had my own share of complicated somethings in my life, as much as it might surprise you. And yes, even one that was a fantastically bad idea. It didn’t end well, either, but I’ve thought back on it and I don’t think I’d change what I’d done. Maybe that’s selfish of me.”

“What happened?” Clint asked, before he could stop himself.

“He died.” Steve smiled ruefully at him. “Don’t look at me like that,” he added, before Clint was even aware that he was looking at him in any particular manner. “It feels like only a few months, to me, but it’s been years. He wouldn’t be around now anyway, even if it hadn’t happened. I’ve made peace with that. But the only advice I can give you is... if you think it could end badly, look at what you’d both gain from doing it anyway. If the gain outweighs the potential loss, do it. It’s just like in combat. No one wants to lose anything, but it’s always a risk, even with good ideas. You can’t spend your life waiting for the perfect opportunity to present itself, because then you spend your whole life waiting.”

“I guess,” Clint said with a shrug.

“Besides,” Steve added, “sometimes you look so hard for something you could miss it when it’s staring you in the face. Don’t let that happen to you.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Sort of. Now, what else is bothering you?”

Clint laughed, leaning forward and hanging his head. “Did I become transparent sometime in the last two weeks and people fail to tell me?”

“I pay more attention than people give me credit for.”

When the archer glanced over at the solider, he was smiling. “It’s just... I don’t know. I wanted to go on the retrieval mission. You know, since I helped get the intel in the first place. Getting left behind just kind of sucks all the way around no matter how you look at it.”

“True,” Steve agreed. “Well, apparently Mysterio has been ranting about his plan finally coming to fruition. Fury wants us all alert in case something actually comes of it. Maybe you’ll get a decent fight out of it.”

“You make me sound like a horrible person.”

“We all like peace, but we also all like fighting. Can’t have both all the time. I guess we’re all horrible people on some level.”

“I think I’d be drawn and quartered for suggesting Captain America was a horrible person.”

Steve laughed and got to his feet, extending his hand. “Come on.” Clint accepted it and was hauled to his feet. “Let’s get back. It’s movie night and I have to pretend that the horror films Tony keeps showing shock and unnerve me.”

Clint blinked a few times in surprise. “You mean they don’t?”

“I fought Red Skull, son, there’s nothing more horrifying than that.” Clint conceded the point. “Still, I enjoy winding Tony up. He thinks I’m such an innocent but I’m probably more worldly than he is.” When Clint laughed, Steve flashed him a smile. “What’s the phrase, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas? That goes double for the trenches.”

Clint couldn’t help it. He found himself giggling intermittently all the way back to the tower, now officially determined to get some war stories out of Steve whenever the opportunity next presented itself.

\- - -

Light from the streets below filtered in through the drawn curtains, and Clint stared sightlessly at the wall as he listened to the sounds of breathing from the man next to him. He couldn’t quite tell if the man was asleep or not, and if he was, the last thing he wanted to do was rouse him. The archer really just needed to get up, find his pants, and leave to go sleep in his own bed, but he’d always found something so warm and comforting about sleeping around other people.

Lying on his stomach the way he was, it was a bit of a struggle for Clint to lift up enough to turn his head and face the other direction. Banner didn’t look at him, but he was definitely awake, his own gaze on the shadows cast by the slowly rotating ceiling fan.

Clint had a brief flash of the scientist’s body underneath his, pliable, burning hot, wound up tighter than a coil, and forced his eyes shut. He didn’t open them again until he felt Banner move and looked up to see him sitting on the edge of the bed, faced away. Since Banner couldn’t see, Clint took the opportunity to study him. He obviously kept in decent enough shape, for a normal guy, and he had a few scars on his back that he wouldn’t have expected on a scientist. But what really threw him was...

“You have a tattoo,” Clint said, though he sat up a little as Banner tensed and glanced back over his shoulder.

“What of it?”

“Didn’t strike me as the inked up type,” Clint said honestly as he pivoted to sit up against the headboard, carding his hand through his recently cut hair. The tattoo itself was on Banner’s back in a rather strange place, in between his shoulder blades and just slightly off to the left. “Is that a hawk feather?” he added with a smirk.

When the silence stretched, Clint cleared his throat and looked away. “...just... noticed, that’s all.”

“Why, because you’re Hawkeye?” Banner asked, his voice several degrees colder than it had been ten minutes ago.

Unfazed, Clint stared at the window. “No. It’s just the sort of feathers I use for fletching. That’s all.” He almost asked another question, but felt the weight of his jade coin against his sternum. No... Banner hadn’t asked about his strange accessory, and tattoos were a very personal thing. They were nowhere near on the level to be swapping life stories.

Banner had relaxed slightly, and Clint could only assume it was because the scientist had decided he wasn’t being made fun of. The minutes stretched before Clint got up and went about the arduous task of collecting his clothing and pulling it on. He felt Banner’s eyes on him and reflected at how acutely aware of the scientist’s gaze he had been lately. “Did you know that Steve isn’t scared of the movies Tony makes him watch?”

When he looked back, he could tell that the question was a non-sequitur that Banner hadn’t been expecting. He stared at Clint for a long moment before clearing his throat. “How do you get that?”

“He told me. Apparently, he likes winding Tony up.”

Banner actually smiled at that, just slightly. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I thought you might want to know that you and Captain America have a hobby in common.”

The scientist chuckled softly, shaking his head, and resettled on his bed. Clint watched him for a long moment, feeling the chill from the surrounding room sink into his skin. His own room would be even worse. He knew that.

He didn’t want to leave, and Banner wanted to ask him to stay. Clint was nothing if not observant, and it was as clear as crystal between the two of them.

But he didn’t say anything, Banner didn’t ask, and Clint left the room to return to his own cold bed a floor above.

\- - -

He was at S.H.I.E.L.D. when the alarm was raised.

Like all other operatives, the moment he heard the call, he was focused and moving to his station. In his case, his station was mobile, as he and Natasha received their orders directly from Coulson. He met the other assassin en route, and the two of them moved as a single unit, following their instructions until they came up directly on the agent’s heels.

“The situation arose ten minutes ago,” Coulson began the moment they were following him. “It looks like Mysterio wasn’t as crazy as we thought. We have information that says Doctor Octopus and the Sandman are currently on their way to break him loose.”

“Great,” Clint muttered under his breath. “Containment?”

Coulson nodded. “If you can manage to isolate Sandman in pieces, do it. We’re currently attempting to contact Spider-Man. It’s not that we feel he’s necessary, but he does have the most experience with these guys.”

Clint parted ways with them at the stairs and immediately began heading up for the roof to find a good place to park himself and observe. There was a sinking feeling somewhere in his gut that something was going to be bad. Very, very bad.

They weren’t alone, when they arrived. If there was one thing that Clint had learned in all of his years fighting villains in spandex, it was that they had a near-inexhaustible legion of cronies always willing to throw themselves in front of a bus for them. Taking careful aim, Clint made sure to incapacitate them without killing or severely wounding them in the process. He heard the chatter through his comm, but kept most of his attention on arrow to target, arrow to target.

That lasted until Thor’s voice came through very loudly, complete with the screech of feedback and the whine of the internal speaker complaining. _“Yes, hello, teammates, are you receiving my communication?”_

“Fuck,” Clint hissed, nearly ripping the thing out of his ear.

_“We can hear you, Thor, no need to shout,”_ Steve said with far more composition than Clint felt. _“What’s your situation?”_

_“The situation is not mine, but the good doctor’s! His laboratory has been infiltrated!”_

“Where is he?” Clint didn’t even realize he had gotten to his feet until he was standing, bow hanging uselessly from one hand and his other keeping his button pressed down.

_“We have no idea,”_ Loki said, in a much more reasonable voice. He, at least, hadn’t been any more confused by the communicators than Steve had been. _“I had left him mere moments before, and we heard a commotion within the compound. When I returned, he was nowhere to be seen.”_

_“Shit, they didn’t take him, did they?”_ That was Tony, and he sounded nearly panicked.

_“We believe they may have.”_

_“God dammit. Captain, if that’s happened, we’re about to have one hell of a worse situation than Doc Ock. Requesting permission to abandon post and go get him.”_

_“They can’t have gone far, Iron Man--”_

_“Look, Cap, you really don’t understand, I need to--”_

Chatter stopped as a deep, earth-shattering roar exploded from somewhere within the building. With the music of breaking glass and the rumble of broken bricks, something burst out from a wall near the middle of the building. Clint watched, fascinated, as the green whatever-it-was pounded four cronies into the ground with massive fists, blood splattering and bones crunching even over the roar of the fighting.

The appearance of the thing drew attention, and it drew attention fast. It looked like a man, but not, and it grabbed the closest henchman and slammed him headfirst into the ground. The resulting pulpy mess would have turned Clint’s stomach if he wasn’t too busy staring. He knew that form, or something very close to it. He had seen it the day he had been taken in by the police in that cave out in the middle of nowhere. He had watched as it had been tased and brought to its knees in a howl of agony and pain.

He _knew_ who that was.

Hand off the comm, he ran to the edge of the building and nearly dropped his bow twelve stories to the ground. Raising his voice, he screamed one single word at the top of his lungs as the world lurched into motion again around him: _“Jade!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> La la la get a bit of backpedaling in the next chapter my god I’m sorry this took so long to get up.


	9. ...in which the Hulk goes on an ill-advised walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say that the feedback I got for the last chapter is probably some of the best feedback I’ve ever gotten? So much love to all of you who have put up with my weird updating schedule and are still here. And now, to show my love... we’re going to back up in time a bit! Just a bit. Sorry guys. Before we begin, though, thanks to Hatter for the plot bunny that I’m employing here in this chapter.

Bruce had been on the phone for long enough that the metal had gotten almost unbearably hot against his ear. He had a Bluetooth somewhere, but he had no idea where it had gotten off to (with his luck, it had fallen victim to one of Tony’s experiments or gotten used for parts at some point) and that meant doing things the old school way.

He pulled the phone away from his ear to check the time--Christ, three and a half hours--and moved it back to his ear to attempt to cut Tony off mid-rant. It took four attempts before he finally managed to break in. “Tony,” he snapped, bringing his friend to a stuttering halt. “Look, no, it’s--... Yes. Yes, I didn’t-- what? I didn’t think so, no. But look, I’ve got-- ...yeah. Yeah, I’ve got-- what? No. Okay. It’s just--“

Bruce closed his eyes and tipped his head back, resisting the urge to sigh. “Tony. Tony, I’ve-- Tony, I’ve got to go. What? ...Yeah. No, okay, no. Yeah. I’ve-- Tony, I’ll talk to you later. Okay. Right. Yes. Very good. Okay. Yes. Yes. ...Yes. Okay. Bye.”

He ended the call and tossed the phone (lightly) onto the work table. He raised his hands, pressing the heels into his eyes, and let out that sigh he’d been holding for the past hour. Tony was, far and away, his best friend in the entire world. He supposed it only stood to reason that he wanted to kill him half the time. But there really was no getting through to him once he had something on his mind. The assurance that Tony was heading up to S.H.I.E.L.D. anyway just made him want to scream ‘then why the hell did we just spent three and a half hours on the phone’, but he knew that answer: Tony would have forgotten what he wanted to talk about, otherwise.

Finally able to turn to his own work, Bruce lost himself in databases and papers. Science was really the only thing that made any sense to him lately. While he wasn’t exactly the most socially aware guy on the face of the planet, he wasn’t inept, and enough time with Tony had at least improved his people skills. He knew how to talk to people without making an idiot out of himself. He knew how to get what he wanted, most of the time, or at least how to come to a viable compromise.

But there were people, and then there was Clint Barton.

If he’d had a confidant that was neither Tony Stark nor Natasha Romanoff, he probably would have spoken to someone about Barton already. He had no doubts, however, that Tony would laugh and Natasha would just tell Barton everything they’d discussed, so that was definitely out of the question.

Bruce moved one distracted hand up to his shoulder and gripped, rubbing his fingers in slow circles into a bite mark beneath his shirt, reveling in the dull ache the movement awakened. He closed his eyes, remembering the feel of calloused palms on his body, teeth sinking into his flesh as a muscled chest pressed down into his back, heated breath ghosting across--

He stopped and put his head in his hands, clearing his throat. As if Tony’s phone calls hadn’t been enough of a distraction from his work.

“Doctor Banner?”

Bruce nearly jumped out of his skin at the soft voice directly behind him and turned in his stool. Loki raised one eyebrow at him, arms folded neatly over his chest. Bruce was between the Norse god and the door, so... “How did you get in here?” he asked when he managed to move his hand away from his sternum.

Loki smiled in a way that looked more mischievous than Bruce had ever seen it. “I have my ways,” he said evasively, raising one shoulder in an elegant shrug. His black slacks and green sweater made him look more relaxed than the leather or the suit, but that wasn’t all that had changed in his carriage. It took Bruce a few moments to pinpoint it, but it was the first time he’d actually seen Loki without Thor in tow. In fact, it was the first time he’d ever actually seen Loki alone, period.

Bruce tried not to think too hard about this. “Did you need something?” he asked instead, watching the demigod as he moved around the room, fingers skating across surfaces and hovering past instruments that he did not touch but could probably pick up electromagnetic pulses from (as if Bruce had any idea how those two worked). He didn’t want to say that Loki made him nervous, exactly, but there was just something about the guy that felt off. It was easier to pick up when he was alone.

A soft hum escaped Loki’s lips as his fingers hesitated over a holographic screen displaying a plethora of numbers and graphs, slowly changing along with the experiment they were attached to. “I wanted to speak to you, doctor,” he said, without looking back at Bruce. “Privately, of course. As long as that isn’t an inconvenience to you.”

Considering that the guy had already appeared in the middle of his lab both uninvited and unescorted, Bruce thought that the courtesy of the statement was bordering on less sincere and more sarcastic. Still, he said, “It’s fine. I can’t touch most of my projects right now, anyway.” To emphasize that point, he gestured towards a screen with his pen.

Loki followed his gaze to the screen in question before nodding briefly. “Doctor Banner...” He hesitated, then, which was enough to put Bruce on edge. In the entire time he’d known Loki, he hadn’t been hesitant to broach a subject. “Why do you not fight alongside your comrades?”

Bruce frowned. “I’m not a fighter,” he said, holding his hands up. “Strictly academic, over here.”

“I think we both know that’s not true.” Loki turned to look at Bruce, his head tipping to the side just slightly. “An ill wind is coming, Doctor Banner. Sooner than you might think,” he added when Bruce opened his mouth. “I have felt what dwells inside of you.”

It was a struggle to keep his face neutral. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Fine, continue to play that game,” Loki said with a put-upon sigh, pushing himself up to sit on a desk. “We both know that I am right, and that is what matters, ultimately.” He tilted his head to the other side, just slightly, and Bruce found himself unable to break eye contact with him. “Why it is inside you, I can’t begin to guess. I gather, from your reaction, it’s unwelcome. It doesn’t matter. You should use it.”

Bruce intended to make another denial, but what came out was, “What would you know about it?”

Loki smiled, a wry twist of his lips that held no humor at all. “I know what it is to have a monster that you hate living inside of you, Doctor Banner. I know how it feels to think of yourself as... broken. And I know that trying to push aside the monster, shove it inside a cage, doesn’t work. It is a tool, and it must be utilized as such.”

Bruce frowned, pivoted his body from Loki, and placed his chin in his hands. There was nothing that he could say, whether in agreement or not, and so he kept his mouth shut. The thought of using the Hulk--the Other Guy--as a tool didn’t leave him with a good impression of himself. It made him feel too much like those men in the carnival. Still, he also did have to admit (internally) that Loki had a point. If he was ever to be placed in a situation that meant he had to take care of himself, he didn’t know if he’d be able to resist the pull of the Other Guy. But he’d have to. Wouldn’t he?

No. He could resist. He knew he could.

But Loki knew what he was talking about. After all, most of the problems they’d had recently were caused by the Jotun, right? And Bruce paid enough attention to have picked up that Loki was at least half, if not entirely, Jotun. With the way Asgardians obviously felt about the ice-dwelling race, it was no surprise that Loki loathed that part of himself, if for no other reason than he was taught to loathe it.

“I’ll think about it,” was all he said after a lengthy pause.

Loki shrugged. “You’ve proven yourself too valuable to S.H.I.E.L.D. for them to put you away somewhere to investigate you now. If nothing else, you can be relatively assured of your personal safety, even if the son of Coul will require you to fill out those incessant papers,” he added with an undertone of genuine annoyance that was sudden enough to nearly make Bruce laugh.

He promised to keep it in mind, and Loki waved lightly over his shoulder as he exited the laboratory. Bruce watched him go before sighing, threading his fingers through his hair. “I’m not getting any work done today,” he muttered at his computer screen. The screen, ever unsympathetic, just changed numbers again.

\- - -

When the alarm was sounded, Bruce was supposed to follow protocol and lock himself down in the basement. Naturally, this was not what he did, because there was far too much sensitive information in his lab to simply abandon it. He was in the process of downloading all of the information to Jarvis when the glass doors of his lab were broken in. He hit the button to delete everything, hoping that everything he hadn’t downloaded was recoverable in some form, and turned with his hands up.

The men before him were fairly standard issue, leather from head to toe with the full-on Splinter Cell headgear. Bruce would have started laughing at the ridiculousness of it if the situation itself hadn’t been so serious. They barked some orders at him, which mostly consisted of staying still, and he stood perfectly still as they began raiding the lab. He managed to hold in his winces as they knocked over equipment that they deemed useless and looked for whatever it was they needed.

“What did you do to the files?” someone was barking at him.

Because it was a very vague question, Bruce felt completely honest when he asked, “What files?”

Something hit him in the back, right between his shoulder blades, and he stumbled, nearly falling. “Don’t play stupid!” the man was shouting, and Bruce instantly knew that he was some thug who had not been hired for his mental capacity. “The ice! We want the files on the ice!”

Ah, right, those files. “Don’t have them,” Bruce said through his teeth. Calm. Keep calm. He could keep calm, he was very good at it. He was at S.H.I.E.L.D. There were Avengers nearby. Everything would be fine. They wouldn’t kill him, not if they seriously thought he could help them, and it would be enough of a distraction for someone to come find him.

_Clint,_ his mind thought, with absolute ridiculousness. _Tony or Steve,_ it provided a moment later, and that sounded a lot more likely.

The man who had been shouting at him, presumably the leader, turned his attention to his earpiece. “We have what?” he asked. “Are you fucking kidding me? An archer took out a team?” The man was incredulous, but Bruce felt a ridiculous surge in his chest. Clint-- Barton was not only all right, he was fighting, and well, from how it sounded. Of course he was.

“No, we don’t!” the man was shouting. “Whatever you want! Kill him, whatever, just get him out of the way!”

Kill Clint?

No.

No, that was not acceptable.

Bruce wasn’t even aware that his rage had slipped its leash of his finely-controlled calm until his vision went green, and then black.

\- - -

_puny._

_bugs. like bugs, scream, make noise. smash, fly, hit ground, red on ground, bugs no move._

_wall. smash wall, air, outside, hit ground. noise, too much, yell back, more bugs, smash. smash bugs. bugs yell, yell back. high up, bug yell._

_“Jade!”_

_look up, sky bright. sniff air. wall, climb wall, up high, bug not bug. bug cupid. scrunch down, touch cupid. cupid frown. touch face._

_“Jade?”_

_cupid sad. pat cupid head. know name. jade._

_“It’s me.” cupid talk. listen cupid word. “It’s Fletch.”_

_fletch. know fletch._

_pat cupid-fletch head more. say, “cupid-fletch?”_

_cupid-fletch frown, nod. “I’m... yeah, I guess... where have you been--”_

_cupid-fletch stop talk, scream, fall. red. red from cupid-fletch._

_yell._

_smash._

\- - -

Bruce woke up feeling as though he had been hit by a truck, his vision blurred and his body aching. He went to say something, but it just came out as an inarticulate grumble. 

“Hey, hey, don’t try to move.”

That, of course, made him turn his head just enough to make out Tony pouring a cup of water and putting one of those ridiculous short bendy straws hospitals insisted on using into said cup. “Here,” Tony said, holding the cup out enough for Bruce to take measured sips of it. Even that exhausted him. It had been so long since his last transformation, he wondered if he was just out of practice.

“God,” Bruce said in a choked, dusty voice. “What happened?”

“Well, we were hoping you could tell us what set you off,” Tony said, putting the cup to the side. “I... uh, I kind of had to tell people about your... condition. Didn’t have much of a choice, after...” He trailed off, waving one hand.

“Shit. Am I going in containment?”

“What? No. Nothing like that. I mean, Fury wants to talk to you, yeah, but considering you’d managed to keep this off S.H.I.E.L.D.’s radar for as long as you had, I think they’re more impressed than pissed off. I mean, they said something about wishing you had told them earlier or... I don’t know, something like that, but not much could be done.”

Bruce let out a sigh, flopping against the pillows and staring at a water stain directly above his head. “This is medical, right?”

“Yeah. They didn’t want to let you out of their sight.”

Bruce nodded. He licked his lips slowly before closing his eyes. “After... I don’t remember what happened.”

Tony frowned. “The only person the big guy talked to was Clint,” he said carefully. “What we could gather from footage and the like was... uh, you changed in your lab. No telling what caused it, no audio. Clint got your attention somehow and you climbed up to the roof. While you were up there, he got shot.” When Bruce’s eyes widened, Tony added, “It’s okay, he’s fine. He’s pissed off, but he’s fine. It got him through the right shoulder and he’s been laid up since, waiting for you to wake up.”

Bruce sighed in relief, closing his eyes again and settling back into his pillows. “Then what?”

“Uh, well, the big guy apparently doesn’t like his teammates getting shot,” Tony said as delicately as he was capable of. “He pretty much singlehandedly took care of the invasion after that. Doc Ock got away, but Sandman didn’t, and they never even got close to Mysterio. He was pissed, let me tell you.”

Bruce could have laughed at that. Of course he was.

“You’re not hurt, though. Apparently the only thing they can find wrong with you is exhaustion. Now that you’ve woken up, they’re gonna run some tests on you, but you shouldn’t be stuck here for too long. Everyone’s been waiting for you to wake up, too, not just me and Clint. Just gonna warn you, though, Capsicle is now extremely determined to make you a part of the team. Officially.”

Bruce opened his eyes to stare at him incredulously. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Nope. I’m dead serious.” Tony smirked before getting to his feet. “Try and get some more rest while you still can. The doctors’ll be in soon enough to start their poking and prodding. I can try and drive them away, if you’d like.”

“No,” Bruce sighed. “The sooner they get it done with, the sooner I can leave.”

“That’s the spirit.”

\- - -

It took three days for the doctors to determine that Bruce was well enough to leave. He would have protested this treatment if it hadn’t taken that long for him to actually get himself to the bathroom and back to bed without feeling winded. In the past months working for the Avengers, he’d forgotten to search for a cure for his... big green problem. This was just reminding him of all the reasons why finding a cure was absolutely essential.

Every single one of the Avengers, except Barton, had stopped by his bedside during his recovery period. Natasha had provided excellent distraction with discussion about better tech to prevent a repeat of the incident, while Tony had been perfectly correct in his assessment that Steve would be trying to recruit him. The only way Bruce had been able to get rid of him was by promising to consider it. He already thought Fury was going to offer him an ultimatum along the lines of “work for us or we’re putting you in a big Hulk-proof box”, anyway. At least Steve was polite about it.

Thor and Loki had, by far, been the most gracious guests he’d had. Though Loki would never admit it, Bruce could tell he felt partially to blame for his condition, having been the one to leave him very soon before the invasion happened. The demigod didn’t apologize, for which Bruce was grateful, but they both declared Bruce’s rations “subpar” and managed to get him some actual food that didn’t taste as though it had all been cooked in the same pan. Whether they had smuggled it past reception, or the workers had just been too afraid to tell the two they couldn’t do what they wanted, Bruce couldn’t say. He was grateful for it either way.

Still, he was relieved when he was finally released and free to actually wander around as he would. When he made his way back to Avengers Tower, he immediately went to his lab to run a check on what information he’d gotten to Jarvis. It wasn’t everything, but it was a sizable chunk, and Bruce was almost positive that everything lost could be replicated. If not, at least it hadn’t fallen into Doctor Octopus’s hands.

He made his way down to the training facility when he hadn’t managed to find anyone anywhere else in the building. The moment he opened the door, he was greeted with the increasingly familiar sounds of fighting that pulled a smile to his face. Thor and Natasha were going at it on the mat--always amusing, mostly because Thor still had issues with hitting a non-Asgardian woman and all that did was piss Natasha off--while Tony and Steve were arguing off of it, since the two of them couldn’t stand to be civil to each other for longer than about ten minutes at a stretch.

Tony’s voice cut off when he noticed Bruce’s entrance. “Look! The lame will walk!” he declared, his hands held over his head. Steve, probably about to chide Tony for blaspheming by quoting the Bible that way, turned to look at Bruce as well. His entire expression lit up as Tony added, “Thank god, we need someone level-headed around here besides Loki. Bruce, come here, everyone in this room except me and Loki are absolutely ridiculous.”

Slowly making his way over, Bruce couldn’t help smiling. “No, you’re ridiculous, too,” he said, ignoring Tony’s offended sound as Steve gently patted his back.

There was a soft thud on the concrete behind him that Bruce could only assume was Barton dropping down from the rafters--a place he shouldn’t have been, considering he’d been shot in the shoulder--and he resisted the urge to sigh. Right, he was pissed off, and that probably meant they were back to ignoring each other. That was the main reason that feeling a hand grab his shoulder startled him enough that he didn’t resist the pull as he was spun around quickly.

“Bar--?” was all he managed before he was punched straight across the face with enough force that he stumbled back and hit the concrete hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And in the next chapter we get to find out what all was happening while Bruce was unconscious! Fun times!


	10. ...in which Clint has really bad coping mechanisms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear we’ll get to the good part eventually. I swear it. For now, we have exposition.

Clint woke up with a distant throbbing in his right shoulder, a fuzzy feeling in the back of his eyes, and the distant knowledge that he should be angry about something but wasn’t able to remember what it was and couldn’t even be bothered to be terribly annoyed at it. He closed his eyes and huffed out a soft groan through his nose, realizing that he had been given painkillers while he had been out. Running his dry tongue across his cracked lips, he peered around the room. S.H.I.E.L.D. medical. He could work with that.

There was no one in the immediate area, so he began doing what he did best. He could count the number of times he’d successfully escaped medical on two hands, but that was twice as many as most other agents. Strangely, no one ever posted guards at his door, but Coulson knew him well enough to accept that if Clint was strong enough to escape, he was strong enough to take care of himself.

He pushed himself into a sitting position and carefully worked the IV out of the back of his hand (they’d never been able to get it into the crook of his arm, for some reason). He worked on autopilot, bringing up the paper-thin sheet to blot the blood welling up from the puncture wound, removing every other node or wire attached to him, and getting shakily to his feet. Once he was positive he could actually hold his own weight, he pulled off the paper gown one-handed (grimacing as the dull throb in his right shoulder spiked) and searched out his clothing.

It was his battle gear, unsurprisingly. It was still dusty and grimy, but his shoulder was well-bandaged and he didn’t appear injured anywhere else. Besides, it was just for the trip back to Stark Tower. Clint was all the way through to lacing his boots when he froze, details finally managing to slip through the haze of his medication and penetrate his brain.

His battle gear. He’d been wearing it when Doctor Octopus had attacked with the Sandman. He’d been fighting off goons, and then... there had been...

“Shit,” he hissed under his breath. Jade had been at S.H.I.E.L.D. Had they been holding him this _entire time_? Even after... even after Coulson had _sworn_...

Clint gritted his teeth and laced his boots, getting to his feet and pulling his vest back on. It still bore twin holes where the bullet had shot straight through him, but nothing was pressing into his wound too uncomfortably, so it would do. He placed his sunglasses back on as a final touch--it tended to give him a ‘fuck off’ sort of look that people didn’t question--and marched straight out of his room and into the hallway. Normally, when he escaped medical, he left through the window and let people waste their precious time searching him out. There wouldn’t be any of that now.

He needed to see his handler.

\- - -

Phil Coulson wasn’t really the hardass that people saw him as. Well, he could be, but it wasn’t his default setting. People expected certain things when they saw The Suit (as he called it), and when he didn’t match up with their expectations, they tended to think there was something wrong with him. When Clint had very first met him, he’d been terrified. It hadn’t mattered that Coulson hadn’t been that much older than him. There was a certain air of authority that the man radiated, had for the entire time they’d known each other.

Clint was probably one of the very few people that could actually call Phil a friend, even if he was still ‘Coulson’ for official business. He’d crashed on his superior’s couch after a night of binge drinking, he’d learned how to play other forms of poker besides five card stud from the man, and they’d once had a recipe exchange that had landed both of them in their respective beds for a week with food poisoning. Many people had teased him about his closeness with his handler, but Coulson was almost a surrogate father to him. He respected him more than almost anyone else he’d ever met, save Natasha.

That made the thought of betrayal that much harder to truly believe.

Still, Clint wanted answers, and he wasn’t going to rest without them. He locked down the pain in his shoulder, compartmentalized it to be dealt with later, and skirted around the few people that he passed in the corridor. He obviously looked like he knew what he was doing enough that people either got out of his way or just ignored him. It didn’t hurt that Clint had been a rather well-known name with S.H.I.E.L.D. even before he’d been selected for involvement with the Initiative. He wasn’t above abusing that respect when necessary.

It took him fifteen minutes to get from medical to the hallway that held Coulson’s office. Normally, he would knock and wait for permission to enter. It wasn’t a normal day.

Clint stormed into the office without so much as a by-your-leave, slamming the door behind him (something he immediately regretted as pain lanced through his elbow, but like hell he was going to let that show on his face). Coulson glanced up before clearing his throat. “I’ll call you back,” he said, perfectly civilly, before hanging up his phone and folding his hands on the desk. He looked as calm as you please, raising one unimpressed eyebrow at Clint for his behavior. “Someone’s chipper for having just been shot.”

“Where is he?”

There went the second unimpressed eyebrow. “You’ll have to be more specific, Agent.”

The reminder of their current professional surroundings didn’t do anything other than fuel Clint’s anger. “You _know_ who,” he bit out, clenching his teeth when he realized a bit of his southern twang was creeping back into his voice. He took a deep breath and tried again, pushing his voice into flat American. “You know who,” he repeated. “He’s hard to miss. Big. Muscular. _Green_.” The last word was snapped with so much force he almost spit on his handler.

“Ah. Him,” Coulson said.

“Where. Is he.”

“Doctor Banner’s in medical.”

It was such a strange non-sequitur that Clint found himself opening and closing his mouth a couple of times. “What-- I don’t-- I don’t _care_ where Banner is,” he said finally.

“But you asked.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did,” Coulson said with a finality that let Clint know that if he interrupted again, he’d get his ass thrown back in medical, complete with steel restraints locking him down to the bed. “The big green guy? That was Doctor Banner,” the Agent continued with perfectly controlled calm. “It appears there was a lot more to the scientist than we initially thought.”

Clint felt like his knees were about to give out under him suddenly. He was grateful for the presence of a chair nearby as he slumped into it rather than landing on the floor. “What?” he asked, the word more a choked whisper.

“I know,” Coulson said, shrugging languidly. “We don’t understand it either.” Clint couldn’t speak, so his handler went on. “The doctor’s laid up in medical, like I said. Exhaustion, according to the physician. Stark’s promised us an explanation, but we were waiting for you to get up. Since you apparently feel well enough to storm around HQ, you feel well enough for a debriefing, right?” The way Coulson smiled was proof he wouldn’t accept any answer but a yes. Not that he was actually looking for an answer.

Not that Clint could actually form words to give him one.

“Good,” Coulson said, as though Clint had actually responded. “Get up, then. I’ll let people know you’ve recovered.” The reassuring pat to Clint’s injured shoulder was enough to jar him out of his daze and he winced, pulling away from the touch. “Let’s go, Agent Barton.”

\- - -

Clint wasn’t in any mood to deal with this. He wanted to run to his room and hide under his blankets until the world started making sense again. But while he could have gotten away with walking out on a meeting with just the other Avengers, the presence of Fury, Coulson, and Hill ensured that he’d have to sit it out.

He didn’t really remember moving from Coulson’s office to the meeting room. Banner. Banner was... No, that wasn’t possible. Not even in the slightest. Surely Tony would tell them that this was all a mistake. He would almost prefer to hear that Jade had been held hostage by S.H.I.E.L.D. than to hear that he was... that he had...

“Look, I don’t know the intricacies,” Tony was saying, leaned back in his chair, a pen flipping back and forth between his hands. “He had it when we first met.”

“When was that?” Fury asked.

“I was fifteen. Almost sixteen. He was sixteen,” Tony told the pen in his hands. “All he told us was that it was the result of an accident he had as a child. It was caused by some sort of gamma radiation. We call it the Hulk, officially, but he tends to refer to it as the Other Guy. It’s like...” He trailed off, tossing the pen from palm to palm again. “I guess you could call it a manifestation of all of Bruce’s rage and more base emotions. That’s the closest we can figure, anyway. If he lets said emotions get the better of him, boom, he hulks out. It also happens if he’s in danger, which is why we agreed that he would stay out of the fighting.”

Silence greeted this before Steve said, “He’s been living with that pressure his whole life?”

“Mhm. So he’s careful. We designed tranquilizers for accidents. Gamma dampeners, really, that force the radiation back down to levels that allow him to be mild-mannered and bespectacled again. He does a damn good job of keeping everything repressed, too, if you ask me. And before you say anything, no, you can’t take him and study him, because he’s with S.H.I.E.L.D. through me.”

Clint turned his gaze from Tony to the papers in front of him, tuning out the rest of the meeting--something about Fury and Tony arguing whether or not Banner needed to be put in protective custody (or any other kind of custody) for the time being--and letting his inner thoughts run wild. It was true. Banner was Jade. As impossible as it felt, things seemed to be definitively pointing in that direction.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

Clint let the words wash over him, slowly, and just allowed his anger to slowly filter through him instead. He didn’t even notice when Natasha’s hand wound around his wrist.

\- - -

“Hey.”

Clint didn’t even turn around at the sound of the roof door opening behind him. When Natasha dropped to sit beside him, he flexed his fingers in his lap, but kept his gaze on the city around them. The silence was too loaded to be considered comfortable. He knew better than to press. He flicked small pieces of detritus off the edge of the Avengers’ Tower roof, watching it fall to the barren sidewalk below, pale dawn light slowly brightening around them.

“He’s awake,” Natasha finally offered.

“Is he.”

It wasn’t a question, and Natasha didn’t take it as one. “Tony told me. I’m going to go visit him. Do you want to come?”

He didn’t answer. She clearly wasn’t expecting him to. Instead, she picked up a small rock and tossed it over the edge of the roof. It landed with an audible click somewhere far below them. The silence had just enough time to grow stifling again before she said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

“Whatever it is that’s bothering you.”

“Not really.”

She nodded, leaning back on her hands and putting her face out of his peripheral vision. “Will you anyway?”

He huffed out a sigh, closing his eyes and pushing his sunglasses further up his face. His right shoulder twinged. “I’m dealing with it.”

“Are you?”

He hummed.

“Compartmentalizing?”

“Something like that.”

She shifted, and he thought she was probably nodding. “How’s the shoulder?”

“It’s got a hole in it.”

She made a soft sound that was probably an exasperated laugh. “Need help changing the bandaging?”

He sighed. “Sure. You’re being weirdly helpful today.”

Natasha didn’t answer, and Clint climbed to his feet, extending his left hand to haul her up as well. They disappeared through the door and back into the air conditioned tower, the cool hitting Clint’s skin and making the hairs along his arms and the back of his neck stand up. He shivered slightly as they took the elevator down to his floor. Once they were safely ensconced in his living room, he said, “First aid kit is in the bathroom.” She nodded and went to go fetch it.

Clint sat on the edge of the couch, thumbing the hem of his shirt in debate. They’d had this conversation before, but by disrobing in front of her, it made it that much more real. It was better than in front of Tony, but only marginally. He’d told Natasha he knew what he was doing.

He was so far out of his depth that it wasn’t even funny.

She came back far sooner than he expected, white plastic box held in her hands and an expectant eyebrow raised at him. He took off his sunglasses and laid them on the table before stripping out of his t-shirt, the color so dark purple it was almost brown. He folded it up quickly and with zero efficiency, ruining the work anyway by tossing the shirt onto a nearby chair.

Clint looked up to find her pursing her lips at him, but for once, he was having a difficult time parsing the expression. She moved to his right side and he held his arm out, his teeth gritted and his eyes shut. She unwound the bandages on his shoulder, taking extra care where the material had stuck to the wound, and began cleaning it carefully.

“Impressive,” she commented idly.

“Just say it,” he said through his teeth, more from the small sparks of pain shooting through his wound than any actual embarrassment or fear of judgment.

She didn’t respond for a moment before she said, “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“You’re thinking it.”

“You don’t let people bruise or bite you, Clint.”

He sighed. “I know.” The last person that had tried getting rough with him in the sack had ended up in medical. It had been a complete accident, honestly. “It just happened. Can we not talk about it?”

Natasha was his best friend for a reason. She didn’t even acknowledge that they were dropping the subject, she just said, “Did you clean and wrap this yourself last time? You missed some spots. Either get a better mirror or just let me do it. You’re off the range for a while.”

“What?” He snapped his head back to stare at her, receiving a thoroughly bland look in response. “Come on, that isn’t fair! I’m not gonna--”

“You always say you’re not going to make it worse, and then you always do. Look, just deal with the downtime for a while, okay? The faster you heal, the faster you’ll have your beloved bow back in your hands.” He turned away from her again to straighten out the skin on his neck and shoulder as she began re-bandaging the wound. “It’s healing well, at least. And you’ve had worse.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, eyes sliding shut. That was true enough. “Can I ask you something without you getting a bunch of clarification in return?”

There was a slight hesitation before she answered. “Yes.”

“I talked to Steve the other day and I told him that I was thinking about doing something that was a bad idea. He said to weigh the pros and cons, and if the former outweighs the latter, to go on with it.” He cleared his throat. “Do you agree with him?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation that time.

“Right. ...different question. If you knew something about someone, and knew that bringing it up would hurt both of you, and knew that compartmentalizing it would hurt you and not them, what would you do?”

“Sometimes pain is necessary, Clint.”

It was a non-answer and the best he was going to get. He nodded as she tied off the bandages and got to her feet, patting him once on the forearm. “There you go, gimpy.”

“Thanks.”

\- - -

He hadn’t gone to see Banner. No one had been surprised. As a matter of fact, it probably would have been the talk of the team (and S.H.I.E.L.D. as a whole) if he had. But he was dealing. He was coping. And, hopefully, he would have all of this shit under control by the time the guy was actually out of medical.

They were in the training basement when Tony said that Banner was being discharged. Steve said something about how the scientist had agreed to at least consider coming onto the team, and Thor had given quite a cheer at that. Clint didn’t comment. It wasn’t his place to. The guy wasn’t his problem.

He’d made a decision. He was going to break off contact with the scientist altogether. It was for the best, and if Banner didn’t have to know about their shared past, then that was less stress all the way around. Clint would ignore Banner for a while, and either he would get the hint or Clint would make it plain when they spoke. But Banner wouldn’t talk to him. Clint was fairly safe in that knowledge. He was fairly certain the guy had a PHD in passivity.

That plan went out the window when the door opened and Banner himself came in. He looked unwell, like he had been working for days straight in the lab. His hair was a mess and his clothes were rumpled, and Clint had come to the conclusion that the guy had just never been introduced to an iron in his life or was allergic to folding clothes or something. He looked so small and fragile that Clint was suddenly overcome with an urge to pick him up, take him up to his room, put him to bed...

...give him a clean blanket and wipe the dirt off his skin and clean away the blood and give him sandwiches.

It made him angry. Clint didn’t even know who he was angry at. Banner, for not telling them earlier. Himself, for his own blindness (because how the hell was he supposed to know?). Tony, in general. Whoever had forced Banner to turn in the first place. The guy’s father. The carnival. Himself again, for being angry, when there was no sense in being angry, and that just made him even angrier.

He wasn’t listening to the conversation as he dropped down out of the rafters, landing right behind the scientist. He grabbed him by the shoulder with his injured arm and spun him around, pain lancing his wound in protestation.

“Bar--?” But Banner didn’t get further than that, cut off when Clint slammed his good fist into the scientist’s jaw and sent him reeling back onto the concrete.

In a movie, everything would have gone into slow motion around them, the room deadly silent and everyone staring as though they had no idea what to do. But this wasn’t a movie, and the enmity between archer and scientist was a well-known thing. Immediately, Tony dropped beside Banner while Steve and Thor (where the hell had he come from?) restrained Clint by his arms. He heard people talking to him, namely things like “What the hell, Barton?!” and “Clint, stop it!” and “Calm down, Clinton!” and “God, Bruce, are you okay?” and “Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake!”, but he ignored them.

Banner was staring up at him and he was caught in some limbo between absolutely shocked and completely pissed off. The brown of his eyes had gone a soft, pale green color. The color of jade. It choked Clint’s words as he fought back against Steve and Thor, doing an impressive job at attempting to break out of their hold.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” he was screaming at the scientist, all his calm veneer and nonchalance completely gone. “What the hell were you thinking?! Why didn’t you tell us?! You should have told us! This is all your fault!”

Someone said something about how he was being ridiculous and that he needed to calm down, and it took him a few moments to realize that Steve and Thor were making an effort to bodily drag him out of the room. How he was resisting was completely beyond him.

Banner had gotten to his feet and had surged forward, but Tony and Natasha were holding him back. “My fault?!” he shouted back, and things looked like they were on the verge of getting very, very bad but Clint didn’t care. “It’s not my fault that you got shot, and this is none of your business, Barton!”

Voices were telling both of them to calm down, and someone asked if they should be alerting anyone.

“It is my business!” Clint yelled, his accent slipping again, but he didn’t care enough to correct it. “I’ve been fuckin’ shot in the goddamn shoulder, jackass, but I ain’t fuckin’ talkin’ about that!” He surged against Thor and Steve and they nearly lost their grip on him. At some point, Loki had moved to the door and opened it. “I looked for you everywhere an’ you’ve been _right fuckin’ here_ ,” Clint screamed. “Why didn’t you jus’ _tell me_?!”

He barely caught a glimpse of Banner’s--Bruce’s--face, gone suddenly pale and wide-eyed, before the door slammed shut between them.

Steve and Thor threw him into a room none-too-gently, where he hit the couch with a soft grunt and immediately brought his hand up to cradle his wounded shoulder. It felt like it was bleeding again. When he inhaled sharply through his nose, it came out as a sniff, and he suddenly realized he was crying. He touched his face, surprised at the wetness he found there, before he scrubbed his hands over his face.

“Shit,” he hissed through his teeth.

The rustle of clothing let him know that Steve and Thor were still in the room, and the captain cleared his throat quietly. “Agent Barton,” he said, with a stiff formality that Clint wasn’t used to hearing. “Do you want to tell us what that was all about?”

“No,” Clint snapped, his voice muffled by his palms and sobs that were still caught in his chest. He lowered his hands and clenched his fists, directing his glare at the concrete. “...I’m sorry,” he said, his voice quiet and hollow. “It won’t happen again.”

“I’m still going to need an explanation for your behavior, soldier.”

Clint opened his mouth to reply, but there was a rather loud pounding on the door cut him off. Thor cleared his throat. “I will handle it, captain,” he said solemnly before stepping out into the hallway. There was soft conversation before the Norse god stepped back in and leaned close to Steve to murmur something in his ear. Clint dropped his head into his hands again, a shuddering breath wracking his body and sending chills up his spine.

He wasn’t supposed to lose it like that. He wasn’t. He’d been prepared. So why...?

Clint heard what sounded like Thor and Steve retreating. He was too numb to really be surprised. When the door shut and the lock clicked into place, he was even less surprised. However, when he raised his head, shock laced through his system fast enough to get him on his feet immediately.

Bruce just stared at him, hand on the knob, fingers on the thumb lock, looking like he didn’t know if he wanted to kill him or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry (I’m not). That was mean (it was).


	11. ...in which Bruce gets some whiskey from his freezer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Talk. Here’s hoping it lives up to expectations.

Bruce felt like he’d just missed a stair after a very long, exhausting climb.

The resounding slam of the door echoed through the training room, leaving everything eerily quiet after the screaming match just moments ago. Bruce stared at the door, his weight tilting slightly to the left, before Tony shook him slightly and brought him back to reality.

“The hell was that all about?” the billionaire asked no one in particular, but he looked at Bruce a moment later.

“I... I don’t...” Bruce shook his head lamely, glancing from Tony to the door. Loki released the handle, looking as though touching it had done something negative to him, and dusted his hands off as he came back into the room.

When Bruce looked at Natasha, it was to find her staring at him with something close to realization in her eyes. “Oh,” she breathed, softly.

Bruce didn’t bother asking what the hell ‘oh’ was supposed to mean. He shook both Natasha and Tony off of him and, before they could call him back, he stormed out of the room. The elevator was still exactly where he had left it, which meant that Steve and Thor had dragged Barton out somewhere down here. It was easy to follow Steve’s voice to the right door and Bruce clenched his fist. He hammered on the door three times and stepped back, his hands clenching and unclenching by his thighs.

A soft murmur inside the room proceeded Thor stepping out, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. “Are you all right, my friend?”

“Fine,” Bruce said, through clenched teeth. It wasn’t just Barton’s words that were bothering him. It was the fact that he was angry--beyond angry, as a matter of fact--and there wasn’t the slightest stirring from the Other Guy deep within him. Nothing. It was like the big guy didn’t want to bash Barton’s face in. That was weird, because at the time, Bruce sure as hell had. If it had been anyone else, they’d be thinking about whether it was worth it to rebuild the tower or not. But there wasn’t even a murmur. “I want to talk to Agent Barton.”

Thor’s expression clearly communicated that he didn’t think that was a good idea. However, Thor was also an Asgardian, and he respected the need to fight one’s own battles. “I understand that you’re upset, my friend, but--”

“It’s fine,” Bruce cut off. “Just... I want to talk to him. Alone,” he added, quickly.

Thor still looked uncertain, but he nodded once. “Give me a moment,” he said, retreating into the room. A few seconds later, he returned with Steve.

The captain gave Bruce a once-over with his eyes, his arms folded securely over his chest. “You sure about this, doctor?”

“Positive. If I need you, I’ll scream,” Bruce added with a rather unnecessary level of sarcasm, but neither of the blondes before him looked offended. Steve just nodded before he and Thor moved off down the hallway. Bruce took a deep breath, shaking his hands out, before he stepped into the room. Barton was there, seated on the couch with his head in his hands. Even from the distance he was at, Bruce could see that the agent was shaking slightly. Bruce reached behind him, thumb and forefinger flicking the lock into place. Barton didn’t react to that.

When the agent finally did look up, the look of shock on his face was nearly cathartic. Bruce had no idea what he looked like, but it must have been bad if it was enough to get Barton up on his feet. Bruce was reminded of the first time he’d lost his temper around Barton and buried a pencil point-first in the hotel desk. The archer had retreated pretty damn fast after that, too.

They stared at each other for long moments, but Barton was the first one to break the silence. “Fuck,” he said in a choked voice, raising his hands to scrub his palms down his face again. He turned away from Bruce, talking a few steps towards the wall. When he turned back, he winced, raising his left hand to his injured shoulder. “I shouldn’t have hit you.”

Not at all what Bruce was expecting, but he was hardly feeling magnanimous at the moment. “No, you shouldn’t have.”

Barton smiled then, a wry twist to his lips with no humor. “Yeah,” he said, running his good hand through his hair. He huffed out a quiet sigh and closed his eyes. “Look, I don’t want to do this. And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t want to do it, either. If you’re here to make me talk, I don’t want to. It’s probably better if we pretend this didn’t happen.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, unamused. “Is this some of that spy ‘I’d tell you but then I’d have to kill you’ bullshit? Because I’m really not in the mood for that right now, Barton.”

The archer huffed out a laugh, looking away. “No. It’s not...” He trailed off before sitting down on the couch again, at the far end. He gestured to the other side. “At least sit down.”

“I’ll stand.”

“You’re really gonna want to sit.”

“Barton...”

“Right, rephrase. I’m not talking unless you sit down.”

Bruce ground his jaw in frustration before he sat down on the other side, leaning back with his arms crossed. “Fine, then. Talk.”

Barton slumped forward, his hands on either side of his nose, his voice slightly muffled in the cone of his palms. “Can I ask you a question first?” He took Bruce’s lack of an answer as an affirmative. “Have you ever wanted really, really badly to be wrong about something, but all of the evidence points towards you being right?”

“Yes.”

Barton hummed quietly, his eyes still closed. “I want, more than anything, to be wrong about this.” Bruce didn’t answer, so Barton huffed out what was almost another laugh. “Right. So, let me tell you a bit about me. The name is Clint Barton, as you knew. That’s my real name, no code there. I was picked up by S.H.I.E.L.D. when I was thirteen. Natasha’s the one who got me, actually. I started training to be a spy, because I already had acrobatic and archery training from my years in the circus as a child. You knew about that, right?”

When he glanced over, Bruce nodded.

Barton looked like he was preparing to say something extremely unpleasant, and Bruce wanted to tell him to just get it over with. Like ripping off a bandaid or something. Barton licked his lower lip. “The circus I was in was called The Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders.”

Bruce was _positive_ he had just misheard what had been said to him, but Barton wasn’t done.

“People called me Fletch.”

It felt as though ice water had flooded through his veins. He felt numb, followed by a rush of so many emotions he couldn’t even catalogue them. If he had been standing up, his legs probably would have given out. Barton was staring at him, waiting for a reaction, but Bruce was so busy trying to process that he didn’t have one to give him immediately. When his mind settled on just feeling one thing that pierced through the haze, it was denial.

“No,” he said, getting to his feet and shaking his head. He was still unsteady as he began pacing. “No, that... that’s not possible. You can’t be... you can’t have... no. No, you’re lying to me, and this is a really fucking sick joke, Barton.”

“I’m not lying,” Barton said in an even voice, watching Bruce as he paced back and forth. He just sounded defeated, as though Bruce’s words had just confirmed his worst thoughts. “Who the hell would have told me? For fuck’s sake, who did you even _tell_ about it?”

Bruce stopped, his hands clenching and unclenching once more. Who did he tell? Tony. No one else. And Tony... Tony was a lot of things, but he would never... But it wasn’t possible. Was it? S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn’t known about the Hulk, so there was no way they’d known about his undocumented past. And Barton, he looked so _upset_ about this. If it was a joke, or a prank, he’d have his poker face on. That was definitely misery he saw in those incomparably blue eyes.

“Shit,” Bruce muttered, turning to the wall and putting his own face in his hands for a few moments. “You have to be fucking kidding me.”

“I’m serious as a heart attack,” Barton said in a carefully neutral voice.

There was a very long silence before Bruce looked over his shoulder. “I don’t usually drink.”

Barton frowned at him. “Neither do I.”

“I still think this situation calls for something stronger than water.”

“Oh, _god_ yes.”

\- - -

Steve and Thor had presumably returned to the training room, leaving Bruce and Barton free to escape to the elevator. They took it up to Bruce’s floor, and the moment they stepped out, Bruce addressed the ceiling. “Jarvis, protocol seven-six-three-a-nine beta. Both my floor and Agent Barton’s.”

“Very good, sir.”

Barton frowned, looking at the ceiling. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a privacy code,” he said. “Unless there’s an attack or something else that physically puts you and me in a great deal of danger, not even Tony can access our floors or ask Jarvis to find out what we’re doing. Turns off all the security monitoring, too.”

As Bruce moved to find the single bottle of whiskey he kept somewhere in the back of his freezer, Barton scoffed. “That’ll piss him off.”

“He shouldn’t have given me the code, then,” Bruce shrugged. He considered withdrawing glasses, but thought better of it, instead just taking the bottle to the living room. Barton followed at a distance, sitting on the couch once Bruce had settled himself in the chair. Bruce removed the cap and drank straight from the bottle, wincing against the burn as he swallowed. He passed it over, and Barton took it easily.

They sat in silence for nearly fifteen minutes, passing the bottle back and forth and taking measured sips from it. As they did, Bruce processed, his genius brain going through every possible scenario and tearing it to shreds in a matter of seconds. The only explanation that was even close was that Barton was telling the truth. But if that was the case... it still didn’t make any sense.

This shit just did not _happen_.

And it put so many more things in perspective, too.

“Is that why you wear that necklace?” Bruce asked into the silence.

Barton looked at him before down, touching his chest through his shirt. “...yeah. I got it when I was about seventeen. Been through three different leather thongs.” He sighed quietly. “And your tattoo...”

“It’s over my heart,” was Bruce’s only answer.

There was about five more minutes of silence, the room growing steadily darker, before Barton muttered, “God, we’re pathetic.”

“Cheers,” Bruce mumbled against the mouth of the bottle before he took another drink. He set it down on the nearby coffee table before rubbing his cold palms together. “I can see why you wanted to be wrong.”

“What? No, Christ, Bruce,” Barton said, drawing Bruce’s attention. It was the first time he’d heard his first name out of Barton’s mouth without the aid of being undercover at a party. “No, that wasn’t...” Barton leaned back in the cushions of the couch. “I used to think about it a lot. Finding you. I was lookin’ for you, y’know, when Tasha picked me up. And, I mean, that was why I joined S.H.I.E.L.D. Phil said... Coulson said he’d help me. Look for you, I mean. S’why I stayed in the first place. But I always thought... god. I don’t know. That I’d find you, happy somewhere, probably married, maybe with kids, livin’ a good life, y’know? Not...” He gestured around the room helplessly. “This.”

Bruce looked around as he did so. He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “It’s not so bad.”

“Wasn’t what I wanted for you, though.”

“The life of an assassin wasn’t what I wanted for you, either.”

“Yeah, well, s’either that or a crim...” Barton huffed out a breath, shaking his head to clear it. “A criminal.”

The silence that reigned over them was thicker and more uncomfortable than before. Bruce stared at Barton’s--Clint’s--profile for several long moments before he broke the silence. “We can’t keep going like this. You know that, right?”

“We could pretend it didn’t happen,” Clint told the ceiling.

“Maybe you could. I couldn’t.”

Clint cracked one eye open and turned his head to look at him. The room, filled with brilliant golds and reds from the sunset, made his eyes look a sort of silver-grey. “Couldn’t, or wouldn’t?”

“A bit of both.”

Clint smiled weakly before pushing himself to sit up. “Yeah.”

Bruce didn’t ask if it was acknowledgement or agreement, because it really didn’t matter. “Is this... really how we’re going to be? I know it was a long time ago, but we had... _have_... a hell of a history together. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yeah. ‘Course I would.”

Bruce shook his head as Clint leaned forward, his arms braced on his own thighs, mirroring Bruce’s position. He couldn’t stop staring at the archer in something caught between disbelief and utter awe. “You’re Fletch.”

“You’re Jade.”

It was several more moments before Bruce spoke again. “I’d say I want to start over, but that’s... not wholly accurate. Can I just ask you something?”

“Yeah.”

“Why do you hate me?”

“I don’t,” Clint admitted, looking at the ground. “I did at first, and I tried to keep it up, but you make it pretty damn hard.” Bruce managed half a smile, but didn’t interrupt as Clint gathered his thoughts. “I remembered all th’ things you’d told me. I mean, about how you’d gotten...” He waved his hand towards Bruce. “About your father, y’know. An’ then what he’d done to you after, an’ I just...”

“You were afraid I’d be like him.”

“Yeah. You said... That very first day, at that meeting, you told Steve you were a nuclear physicist and all I could think was that you were th’ same type of guy that had hurt my friend, that would do something like that to a little kid, and I didn’t... I just couldn’t...” He stopped, running his uninjured hand down his face. “All I could think was that, and it... It didn’t even occur t’ me t’ give you th’ benefit of the doubt or some shit.”

“I took this career because I thought I could figure out what had been done to me and find a way to reverse it,” Bruce said. “Hasn’t worked so well, so far.”

“See, I didn’t even think of that.”

“If it helps, I hated you when I found out you were in the circus for similar reasons.”

Clint laughed weakly and shook his head. “Yeah. We’re both pretty fuckin’ pathetic.”

They talked for a while. Clint told him about what had happened after the police had taken him away, about being found by Natasha and beginning his work as an assassin. He told him more about S.H.I.E.L.D., about Coulson and Fury, and about some of the jobs that he’d worked on. Bruce returned the favor, telling Clint about the underground prison he’d been held in, how Tony and his father had broken him out, and about his life with the Starks after that. When they finally stopped for breath, it was pitch black in the room.

Bruce checked his phone. “God. It’s nearly three.”

Clint smiled a little. “Think anyone’s havin’ a meltdown about us disappearin’?” he asked, his voice still slurred a bit from the whiskey.

“Maybe, but that’s not really my problem,” Bruce admitted as he got to his feet. “...Clint?”

Clint looked up a little hazily, but even in the moonlight, that was definitely surprise in his features.

Bruce ran through a lot of different ways to start what he wanted to say, but he struck down every single one of them. Eventually, he settled on, “Stay.”

Clint got to his feet, putting them on a more even visual field. “You want me to?”

That was such a terribly loaded question that he couldn’t even put all of his thoughts about it to words. Yes, he did. On another level, he wasn’t sure. He thought so, but... “We have a lot that we have to work out. You know that, right?”

“Hell yes. I’m a fuckin’ headcase.”

Bruce smiled a little. “You’re not alone in that. But I don’t want to worry about that tonight. For now... look, I know how pathetic this will sound, but I found you. I was looking for you for twenty years too, you know.” Clint bit his lower lip, but he didn’t say anything. “I just... stay, tonight.” He didn’t say please, but by the look on Clint’s face, he could tell.

“Okay.”

They moved into Bruce’s bedroom, shutting and locking the door. Bruce stripped out of his jeans as Clint did the same, but Bruce had to help the archer with his shirt. They took long enough for Bruce to fetch his medical kit and rebandage the injury for him--reporting that it looked like it was healing very well, even if he _had_ made it bleed again with his earlier behavior--before they both settled into Bruce’s bed.

It was odd, having Clint there and knowing he was probably going to be there when he woke up. They weren’t too far apart, and it was very easy for Bruce to move his hand out and rest his palm flat between Clint’s shoulder blades. Laying on his stomach, face turned towards Bruce, Clint cracked one eye open and hummed something questioning.

Bruce shook his head. “Are you going to have a hangover tomorrow?”

“I have no idea.”

“Whiskey hits you hard.”

“Mm,” Clint agreed, his eyes sliding shut again. “What are we gonna do about...” He raised his hand enough to gesture between the two of them.

Bruce sighed. “I know what I want to do. On the other hand, I also know that things don’t work out in life like they do in stories.”

“I dunno,” Clint muttered into the pillow, not dislodging the warm weight of Bruce’s hand from his back. “I found you in the fuckin’ Avengers Initiative of all goddamn things. If that ain’t storybook then I don’t know what is.”

Bruce smiled, shaking his head. “How about this... Like I said, I don’t want to start over, but we should probably approach this whole thing from a different angle.”

“What angle’s that?”

“Would you go out to dinner with me?”

Clint cracked his eye open again, smirking. “You askin’ me on a date, doc?” he asked with a distinctive teasing note to his voice that Bruce had heard, many times, but never once directed at him.

“I guess I am.”

“Okay.” Clint nodded into the pillows, huffing out a breath. “We can do dinner. You sayin’ you want to slow down or what?”

“I’m saying I want to go to dinner and then see where things go from there.”

Clint yawned lightly. “I can do that.”

By the time Clint had fallen asleep, Bruce found himself tracing the ridges in his spine, following it up and down his back. He’d found him. It still didn’t feel real. It felt like... like his brain had decided that Clint, with his occasional trace of accent and circus history and archery, was the closest thing he had to actually finding Fletch. If his brain was taunting him with a dream of having found him and he woke up still in medical, he was probably going to break something.

And then feel horribly guilty about it.

But that was going to be in the morning, whatever happened. For now, the whiskey felt real enough, as did the solid mass of Clint’s muscles under his hand, and all Bruce could think of was that this would be the cruelest prank his mind could possibly play on him if it really was a dream.

He wasn’t even positive he truly believed it.

But he could worry about that in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a short chapter, but the next chapter is going to be an interlude-type and I really just wanted this one to be focused all on their talk. I do kind of hope this helps make up for previous angst though! *Goes to hide*


	12. ...in which no one knows what's going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally supposed to be an interlude, but then I decided to make it longer for all of you lovelies who are still paying attention. But I also wanted to try out some other POVs within this narrative, and this seemed like an excellent time to do that.
> 
> I’m sorry this took so long to get out, guys. I was in a TERRIBLE car wreck that left me out of commission for a while, and also I kind of write as my job, so that ended up taking priority. But I heard some of my inspiration music for this story today and felt like refocusing, so have a chapter. Hopefully, I’ll get back on track with this stupid thing. And hopefully, some of you are still out there.

Tony Stark was not a man that missed much.

That was a blatant lie, actually, and Tony was well aware of it, but that didn’t mean he had to actually admit it. So he pretended that he was not a man that missed much, which meant that when Bruce stormed out of the training room after Clint, he had to pretend he knew what the hell was going on.

“Hm,” was what he said to communicate this, his arms folded over his chest and a light frown of concern on his features.

“You have no clue, do you?” Natasha asked without looking at him.

That was the infuriating thing about Natasha. She always knew. Tony often wondered if he could hire her away from S.H.I.E.L.D. Then again, knowing Natasha, even he wouldn’t be able to afford it. That, and Fury would make him very, very dead. However, letting Natasha know that she knew that he didn’t know, on top of being a hell of a confusing sentence, was letting her win.

Unacceptable.

“Of course I do,” Tony said dismissively, with an accompanying scoff and a wave of his hand.

“Of course you do,” Loki said, and somehow, he made it sound like he was talking to a four-year-old.

Tony opened his mouth, but was interrupted from what would have surely been a witty and scathing response by the return of a perplexed Thor and a disgruntled Steve. Disgruntled was his favorite look on Steve, so he ignored Loki in favor of sidling up to everyone’s favorite All-American Boy to find out what had gotten him so worked up. It was rare that it wasn’t him.

“What happened?” he asked, once he was just too far into Steve’s personal bubble of space for the captain’s 1940’s public-social-setting sensibilities. “Please tell me you didn’t leave the two of them alone.”

“The good doctor requested it,” Thor said, his deep voice bringing about the mental image of a puppy who couldn’t understand why it couldn’t catch its own tail more accurately than anything Tony had heard in his life. “He said he wished to speak with him.”

“I don’t like it,” Steve admitted, sidestepping Tony’s attempts to make him uncomfortable (‘which means I win,’ chimed the more immature part of Tony’s mind, which was most of it). “Agent Barton wouldn’t say why he acted out, and then Bruce…” Steve trailed off with a stern shake of his head.

If Clint was relegated to ‘Agent Barton’ status again for the time being, things must have been serious. Loki frowned so deeply that Tony could hear the expression across the room. “We won’t be seeing Doctor Banner’s other half make an appearance, will we? He managed to throw both myself and Thor out windows rather effortlessly.”

Right, they hadn’t mentioned that to Bruce. …probably best that they didn’t.

“Nah,” Tony said, assuredly. “If the Hulk was going to show up, he would have the moment Hawkass went all haymaker on his face. If Bruce was pissed, which he was? It was all Bruce. We’d be rebuilding this place right now, otherwise.”

“I have work to do,” Natasha said in that idle, airy way of hers. She disappeared out the door before Tony had a chance to call her back and admit that he didn’t know what was going on so she’d better spill, dammit.

Thor fidgeted, which (for him) meant taking his impressive hands off his hips to cross his impressive arms over his impressive chest before going back to his original position. “Perhaps we should return and speak to them rationally,” he said. “No good can come of such unrest between brothers-in-arms.”

“So you have professed countless times,” Loki said. “It still remains that true camaraderie cannot be forced. If Doctor Banner and Clinton possess ill will towards each other, it is their burden to bear.” He frowned, mostly to himself. “Still, if I were to--”

“Brother, no.”

“You do not yet know what I mean to do.”

“Your schemes bode ill no matter your intentions.”

“You held a much different opinion when--”

“I am so very positive I don’t want to hear the rest of that sentence,” Tony cut in, loudly. By the smirk on Loki’s face and the fact that Thor was now focused intently on the ceiling, arms crossed again, the billionaire was pretty sure he’d made the right call, there. “Hey, Jarvis?”

“Yes, sir?”

And Bruce had told him that building an all-knowing, all-seeing AI deity thing had been too Skynet for his tastes. What did he know about good taste? He hadn’t laughed when he’d reprogrammed Jarvis to respond to all of Bruce’s requests with ‘I’m sorry, Bruce, I can’t let you do that’, so he clearly didn’t have a sense of humor.

That shit was funny.

“Status report on Doctor Banner and Agent Barton,” Tony said instead. “Are they causing severe property damage?”

“They have left the holding room, sir.”

Oh. Well, that was good. Maybe they had settled things amicably, then. “Great. Where’d they go?”

“Doctor Banner’s floor, sir.”

That was less good. “Why the hell did they do that?” Tony asked with a frown.

“I am afraid I cannot provide that information, sir,” and damn if the AI didn’t sound slightly abashed at that. “Doctor Banner has enacted protocol seven-six-three-a-nine beta on both his floor and Agent Barton’s.”

“Why the hell did he do that?” Tony repeated, more harshly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve asked, at the same moment Jarvis responded, “I’m afraid I cannot provide that information either, sir.”

“Dammit. I shouldn’t have given him that code,” he grumbled. When he looked around, he saw three sets of eyes giving him three rather impressive looks that all demanded explanations. “It’s a privacy protocol,” Tony said, reluctantly. “I put it in place in case of… well, y’know… in case anyone had something going on in their rooms that they didn’t exactly want video evidence of later.”

Loki’s smirk returned at that, Thor said something about it being a wise decision, and Steve stared at Tony for all of five seconds before his ears turned pink and he shook his head with an angry mutter of, “For crying out loud, Tony.”

“It’s come in handy,” Tony said defensively. “Anyway, usually I’m the only one that uses it, but what with Bruce working with me on the tower and all, it seemed dumb to keep him out of the loop. He’s never had reason to use it before.” He sighed. “Maybe the two of them fought again and are cooling off in their rooms or something. Anyway, it means none of us can go check on them, either.” Loki opened his mouth, and Tony said, “New tower rule. If you can’t get in through the elevator or stairs, it’s considered off limits.”

Loki smirked. “None of you are any fun,” he said, before he quite literally rippled and disappeared.

Tony would never get used to that guy. Particularly not when he had such flashy ways of proving his point. That was Tony’s job, goddammit.

“I’ll talk to Bruce in the morning,” Tony said. “I’m guessing Natasha is on Baby Bird duty,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “Anyway, I guess this wraps up the training for now, since everyone’s ditching.”

He would get answers. Tony always got answers.

\- - -

Loki was precisely where Thor thought he would be: up on the roof, walking through the girders and bracers that had been laid out for a new floor but remained uncompleted. Thor was beginning to think that Anthony was only going to finish this monolith once he could open a window and catch a star.

“Loki,” Thor called, waiting for his brother to acknowledge him before he approached. When the distant pinpricks of green within shadow turned to him, he took it as permission to cross the distance between them. After so many years, he knew how to handle his brother. He just wished others could learn the same.

“You should be resting,” Loki said once Thor was close enough, his gaze once more turned onto the Midgardian city. “The night does not suit you, brother.”

Thor didn’t rise to the bait and came to stand beside Loki. The two of them stood in silence for long moments before the thunder god broke the tranquility. “Did you know something? Before?”

He didn’t have to clarify. He never did. “I had my suspicions,” Loki hedged. Though Thor had the rather unique position--save for that of Frigga’s--of hearing fewer lies from his brother than most, it did not make Loki inherently trustworthy. A lake was smaller than an ocean, but just as wet. Oblivious to Thor’s musings, Loki continued, “I spoke to the good doctor, you know, just before the attack.”

“I was made aware.”

“Mm,” Loki said. He had disclosed it before, but then, it was not as though he could have avoided doing so with any sort of ease. He had been seen on the security footage. “I felt something in him, during our time of working together. I had no idea it possessed such magnitude,” he added dryly.

Thor chuckled under his breath and risked a sidelong glance at Loki. He was wearing a smile to match his tone. “A fitting description.” Loki’s smile widened marginally, and Thor took that for a victory. He turned his own eyes back to the horizon with its lights and its haze. “I had always thought that you took a keen interest in Doctor Banner.”

Loki’s laugh was a scoff. “Please,” he said dismissively. “Interest, most certainly, but not in the way you are implying.”

Thor smiled to himself. “Not your… what is the phrase, your type?”

“If I were to have a tryst with a Midgardian, Doctor Banner would hardly be my first choice.”

“Anthony, then.” Loki laughed outright at that. “So no?”

“Is that jealousy I hear?”

Thor shrugged. “No. You are as entitled to it as I was.”

“Hm,” Loki agreed softly. “Your Midgardian woman was ages ago, by their reckoning. I hardly feel the need to exact petty revenge for that now. Besides, Midgardians are so complicated with their ideas of monogamy and commitment and possession. I hardly feel I could make one understand the scope of Asgardian relations. Your wench certainly didn’t.”

“Loki…” Thor warned, and he glanced over enough to see Loki shrug dismissively. “In any case, you were correct about the doctor. Magic, then?”

“No,” Loki allowed, unfazed by the change in topic (and probably mollified by being told he was right). “Well, perhaps, if anything Midgardian in origin can be considered magic. His form, certainly, was not natural.”

“Certainly not.”

They stood in silence again, nothing but the air whistling past them. It was cold, so high up, but neither of them felt it. Loki murmured, “The ice still rests out there.”

Thor nodded. “If Laufey plots to conquer this land again, he will meet resistance. Father--” Loki tensed visibly, and Thor amended his words before any more damage could be done. “Asgard will send no reinforcements, but from what I’ve seen, they will hardly be necessary. I would love to see what sort of havoc the Man of Iron could wreak on Laufey’s armies.”

As his brother relaxed and smiled, so did Thor permit himself to breathe. “Yes,” Loki said with a kind of low, sick glee. “I think that would be a most enjoyable sight.”

Thor sighed to himself and stepped behind his brother, winding his arms around the other’s slighter form. Loki tensed again before he relaxed with a sigh and leaned back into his embrace. “This is not your fault, brother.”

Loki didn’t respond, and the two of them stood for a long time. Finally, Loki murmured, “Why do there seem to be no stars in Midgard?”

Thor had no answer for him.

\- - -

No one saw either Bruce or Clint at breakfast.

Now, Steve was a very live-and-let-live kind of guy. Whatever the two were getting up to in their private time was really none of his business, so long as it wasn’t illegal and didn’t hurt them or anyone else. That didn’t change the fact that Steve had gotten most of his idea of teamwork from the Army, and in the Army, you got along for the sake of the mission even if you hated each other’s guts. And…

…well, it wasn’t like the two of them had been at each other’s throats or anything, but in a lot of ways, their ignoring each other was worse. A lot worse. And the outright hostility of the day before was not having a positive effect on their team.

Or, rather, it was having a negative effect on Tony, who (in turn) was having a negative effect on the team.

“I’m gonna break one of those doors down,” Tony muttered. An empty threat, naturally, because Tony would as soon cause harm to one of his own projects as he would stab himself in the arc reactor. “I really shouldn’t have given him that code.”

“Hindsight is twenty-twenty,” Steve said over his mug of coffee. Tony’s eyes flicked to his biceps and back up. As usual, Steve pretended he didn’t notice (but what kind of idiot would he have to be not to notice?) and simply went on. “Still, the two of them just need time. Will we be able to reach them if a crisis comes up?”

“Yeah, of course,” Tony said, as though offended at the very notion that he would have designed anything otherwise.

Steve shrugged. “Jarvis would tell us if they had killed each other. Otherwise, we don’t need them right here, and they’re both grown men who are completely capable of working through their issues on their own. It won’t be long before Bruce has to get himself back in the lab, anyway. Try to relax a bit, would you?”

“Bruce is ignoring me!”

“I wonder why,” Steve said, dryly.

Tony sat at the table and muttered something under his breath. Steve ignored him.

\- - -

Natasha knew exactly what was going on.

She’d had her suspicions, of course, from Clint’s very obvious meltdown combined with the fact that he and Bruce hadn’t come back. But what confirmed it was the fact that Clint wasn’t answering his phone when she called.

Nothing, short of a mission, death, and intimacy that she’d rather not overhear anyway prevented Clint from answering his phone when she called.

She’d heard the whole story years ago, and it had only taken one iteration for her to commit the entire thing to memory. She had recommended that he speak to Coulson about it, of course, but beyond that she hadn’t breathed a word that he’d said. Well, to anyone else, of course. She’d brought it up with “alarming frequency” (his words) in the past few years.

She hated to admit that she’d had no idea. But, still, it was nice to be the only Avenger who had a clue what was going on.

And for that, she was satisfied.

\- - -

Loki didn’t often eat breakfast in the communal dining area.  
As a matter of fact, he didn’t often eat breakfast. While he couldn’t consume the quantities that Thor and Steve could, seemingly without effort, he still had an inhuman appetite. This very rarely extended to the morning hours. With Midgard had come the possession of a circadian rhythm, and his did not agree with him before at least the early afternoon.

Coffee, however, he could consume at any hour of the day and any state of wakefulness. Mostly, he hoped for a repeat of Thor forgetting that dishware was not to be thrown in Midgardian society, as Steven’s scandalized expression had been a source of great amusement.

So, with that in mind, he sat at the table, sipped his drink, and let his attention drift between Anthony and Steven’s latest bickering and musings on what a splash of Asgardian ale would taste like mixed with this brew. He was just about to suggest the idea to Thor--surely his provisions had included at least a small cask--when the door to the dining room opened and Clinton strode in as though he hadn’t been missing for three days.

He looked good, all things considered. He was still bandaged and he looked as though he had just rolled out of bed, judging by the state of his hair, but he appeared to have been both eating and bathing regularly. Before Anthony could call attention to the situation, Clinton moved to touch Steven on the shoulder.

“Hey,” he said in a low voice. “I wanted to apologize, yeah? It won’t happen again. I promise.”

The archer’s disappearing act seemed to have done a lot of good in turning Steven’s ire into concern. “Don’t worry about that,” the captain said with a firm sort of sincerity. “You all right then, soldier?”

Clinton flashed a grin and a half-hearted salute. “Right as rain, Cap. Just needed a couple of days to get my head straight. I mean, hell, I was still supposed to be in medical, right?”

Loki raised an eyebrow at Clinton, trying to cover up his own amusement. “Would that still apply to today?”

“No,” the archer hedged, glancing away, and Loki’s smile widened at the obvious lie. “They totally would have released me by now.” Without making eye contact again, Clinton moved to the refrigerator and began withdrawing literal armfuls of ingredients.

Anthony snapped out of his stunned state and rose halfway to his feet. “Wait. Wait. Whoa. No. What? You disappear for, like, forever and then you think you can just saunter in and say it won’t happen again?” he asked, without care to the fact that he was addressing Clinton’s back. “Come on! Spill! You punched Bruce full in the face! I want details!”

“Nope,” was Clinton’s only response as he began cracking eggs into a large bowl and whisking them together with milk, salt, pepper, and what smelled like chili powder. Loki found himself watching, fascinated by the art of cooking, one of the few things he’d never even thought to learn. The egg mixture cooked with butter melted in a pan, cheese, and some ham sliced into small pieces. When Clinton laid it out on a plate, Loki was positive that it was too full of… things for anyone to properly enjoy it. When he pointed this out, however, Clinton just shrugged him off with the words, “I’m Midwestern,” like that was supposed to mean anything to him.

“Bruce!” Anthony cried the moment the doctor walked in, as though he refused to let someone else take the credit for noticing him first. “You’re alive!”

“Um, yeah, I’m alive,” Bruce said with a sheepish smile, his expression clearly suggesting that he hadn’t expected anyone to be in the room.

“Where have you been? I’ve called you at least seventeen times!”

“I know, I heard the voice mails,” Bruce said dryly. “I’ve--”

“Here,” Clinton interrupted, thrusting the plate at the scientist, who took it as though on instinct. “Carry this, would you?”

“Is this all for me?” Bruce asked, his eyebrows raising nearly to his hairline.

The archer snorted. “No.”

“You could have made this upstairs.”

“No I couldn’t have, you’re out of eggs and so am I. You drink tea, right?”

“Yeah,” the scientist said. “Coffee is… Well, it’s a little…”

“Got it.” Clinton took a box of tea down from the cabinet, fetched his mug and Bruce’s, filled his own with coffee from the pot, and the two of them vanished again.

Silence reigned in the kitchen before Thor cleared his throat. “Interesting.”

“Interesting?” Anthony asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “No, no, robots are interesting. New scientific discoveries are interesting. Body piercings are interesting. That? That was weird.”

“Oh, Anthony,” Loki said, slathering his own voice in false sympathy. “Have you been left out of the loop again?”

The Man of Iron cursed violently enough to make Steven blush once more.

\- - -

“Hey Natasha.” With his cell phone cradled between his ear and his shoulder, Clint finished cleaning up the kitchen by pushing the dishwasher closed with his foot and wringing out the dish towel in the sink with both of his hands. “Sorry that I didn’t return your call earlier.” He smiled to himself. “Yeah. No, I know, it was… …It was weird. What? …Yeah, he is. I guess it doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.”

He folded the towel and hung it over the oven handle, nodding slowly as he listened, despite the fact that she couldn’t hear it. “It… no, it isn’t,” he admitted with a quiet sigh. “It’s… weird, Nat, I can’t even begin to--… What? No, he’s in the shower. Yeah.”

Clint crossed into the living room and stretched out on the couch, propping his feet up on the arm and letting his head rest on the cushion. “Um, well, for starters, we still aren’t getting along that well. …Yeah, no, we fight a lot. He likes my cooking, though. I’m getting better at it.” He laughed softly. “Yeah, there’s that. But… I don’t know. I mean, this isn’t at all what I was expecting. I don’t know what I was expecting, to be honest.”

He sighed and stared at the ceiling, keeping one ear out for the shower. “I don’t know. I mean, I wasn’t expecting… Fuck. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.” He smiled ruefully as she reminded him that, yes, he did know what he was expecting. “…yeah. I just feel like this is…”

He cut himself off, but she knew what he was going to say anyway. “Sure, tell me not to blame myself, because that’s totally how this shit works.” He huffed out a quiet sigh. “I don’t know. We’re… trying it. We haven’t left our floors much, just because we… I don’t know. …No, we’re not holed away in a love nest, shut up. We’re trying to figure things out and that’s a lot easier without Tony breathing down our necks and Thor and Steve trying to help. …No, help us, not help Tony. …Yeah. I don’t know if it’s going to work but… we have enough history. It’d be a hell of a waste if we didn’t try it. Wouldn’t it?”

He heard the shower cut off in the other room. “Hey, I gotta go. Let’s do lunch tomorrow? …Yeah, I can pry myself away, don’t be a jerk.” He smiled to himself. “Yeah, I hate you too. Night.”

Clint disconnected the call and let his cell fall to the floor, his eyes still glued to the ceiling. After what felt like an eternity, he forced himself to his feet and strolled into the bedroom. The bathroom door was ajar and he could see Bruce’s shadow on the back wall of the bathroom. The archer moved to the open door and leaned up against the frame, watching the scientist.

He didn’t bother with any sort of introduction. “What are we going to tell them?”

Bruce sighed and braced his hands on the bathroom counter. “I don’t know.” He looked smaller like this, Clint thought. It wasn’t as though he had never seen him before. It was just… trying to imagine Jade as he’d seen him--the Hulk? Wasn’t that what he was called--being the same guy that was standing before him with his head hung…

It didn’t compute in his head.

Clint tentatively stepped forward until he was right behind Bruce. He almost wrapped his arms around his waist, but thought better of it, instead resting his hands on the counter either side of Bruce’s and leaning his forehead against Bruce’s shoulder. “Could tell them the truth,” he ventured, slowly. “I mean, I’m going to tell Natasha.”

Bruce made a soft noise at that, almost like a snort. It sounded like ‘yeah, I could have guessed that’.

Clint shrugged. “She already knew about… us. From before,” he amended quickly. “…well. And… recently. She doesn’t miss shit. It’s not like I told her, I just…”

Bruce hummed quietly. “She guessed?”

“Nat doesn’t guess. She just knows.” Clint moved away from the counter and laid his hand on Bruce’s shoulder long enough to get him to turn his head. “Come on,” he said, nodding back towards the door as his hand fell away. He turned and went back into the bedroom, listening to the other man following him back.

It was awkward. Painfully awkward. Both of them clearly felt it, too, so it wasn’t like Clint was imagining it. He slid into the side of the bed that had been unofficially designated as ‘his’ and rolled to face the wall, closing his eyes and concentrating on the feeling of the mattress dipping beneath Bruce’s weight.

The thing was, he still didn’t like Doctor Bruce Banner all that much, but he was trying to attribute it to not knowing him rather than being strictly incompatible with him. Over the past three days, they’d done very little talking, simply spending time existing in the same room and getting used to each other’s presence. Frequently, Bruce read while Clint watched television, and inevitably, one of them ended up leaning on the other. They never talked about it or acknowledged that it was a thing, they just did it.

Clint cooked most of the time, something he’d gotten good at, but with both of their floors closed off and Bruce still possessing the Hulk’s metabolism it hadn’t taken long for them to go through a good portion of their refrigerators and pantries.

It wouldn’t be long before they’d have to drag themselves back into the real world.

Screwing his eyes shut, Clint pressed his fist into his forehead. Not for the first time in the past days, he wondered what he was doing, and why he had ever thought it was a good idea in the first place. They’d been close, once, had been the only thing that had mattered to each other, but that was the past. They’d both moved on. Hadn’t they?

He lowered his hand once he felt Bruce hesitantly move behind him and wrap one arm around his abdomen. Clint tensed slightly, but let himself be dragged against the other’s deceptively toned chest.

“Fletch?”

All tension drained straight out of the archer and he practically sagged back into Bruce, moving back until his shoulder was tucked under the other male’s chin. “Jade,” he murmured in response.

If Bruce had intended to say anything else, he changed his mind. Lips pressed to Clint’s neck in not quite a kiss before the scientist settled down. It was several minutes later that he spoke into the archer’s hair. “We should go down tomorrow. I need to get back to work. You need to return to your training.”

“Mm,” Clint agreed vaguely, closing his eyes. “We’ll be interrogated.”

“What do we tell them?”

“The truth, like I said.”

“And what is the truth?”

Clint licked his lips before he turned in Bruce’s arms, slinging his own arm to rest across the scientist’s waist. “They don’t need gory details. We knew each other as kids. Kind of grew up together. And we recently found out who the other is, so we’re getting reacquainted. Do they need to know more than that?”

Bruce shook his head and closed his eyes. Clint settled down to sleep, trying to fight off the feeling that the other man hadn’t been satisfied with his response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All that, and it was kind of a filler chapter. Sorry ‘bout that. More story next chapter.


End file.
